


I Put a Spell on You

by The_Winter_Straw



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Friendship, One Shot Collection, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Romance, collection, occasional canon side pairings, reader is related to canon characters, request friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 48
Words: 85,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: Love is a kind of magic unto itself, if you think about it.In response to the "115 Words" challenge by BonitaWolfSpirit on Lunaescence Archives.
Relationships: Albus Severus Potter/Reader, Cedric Diggory/Reader, Draco Malfoy/Reader, Dudley Dursley/Reader, Fred Weasley/Reader, George Weasley/Reader, Ginny Weasley/Reader, Harry Potter/Reader, Hermione Granger/Reader, James Potter/Reader, James Sirius Potter/Reader, Lily Luna Potter/Reader, Lucius Malfoy/Reader, Luna Lovegood/Reader, Neville Longbottom/Reader, Oliver Wood/Reader, Pansy Parkinson/Reader, Percy Weasley/Reader, Peter Pettigrew/Reader, Regulus Black/Reader, Remus Lupin/Reader, Ron Weasley/Reader, Scorpius Malfoy/Reader, Severus Snape/Reader, Sirius Black/Reader, Teddy Lupin/Reader, Tom Riddle/Reader, Viktor Krum/Reader
Comments: 31
Kudos: 452





	1. Death [Neville Longbottom]

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I _know_ I don't need _another_ unfinished prompt response collection but you know what? I do have one. Them's the facts.
> 
> Anyway, if you have read any of my other collections, you might have seen me mention being diagnosed with depression at some point. I wrote this when I got on some medication and finally started feeling well enough to enjoy writing again. As such, the first handful of these are 1) short and 2) not really up to my personal standards. But what else is new?
> 
> Two things to know about this collection:  
> 1) At this point in time, I really, really don't care about silly rules like "you can't make up characters related to canon characters" and "no non-canon characters can be involved in major canon events." As such, yeah, sometimes the reader is going to break those rules.  
> 2) If you want to see a character, feel free to let me know! If I can think of a good story for them, I'll throw them in. People have also taken up asking to see continuations of certain one shots, so you'll see those on occasion, too. You can request female characters as well, but it's gonna be a bit before we get to the first of those.

It never ceased to amaze Neville how immediately the heat and clamor of a battle could be swallowed up in icy silence. It never startled him how suddenly that cold void could be filled again. _This_ time, _this_ sound did. Only a minute or so before, you and he had been racing together to get a better angle to attack the giants sieging the castle. Now... 

Now you were splayed across your brother’s chest, wailing at such a pitch that the hairs on the back of Neville’s neck stood at attention. 

“Fred—Fred. N-No, Fred. No! How? Why?” you sobbed as Neville looked on, feeling numb and helpless. His feet remained rooted to the floor among the rubble and other bodies that had fallen there. As badly as he wanted to comfort you, it was though you were suddenly a million kilometers away. Struggle as he might, he could not reach you. 

“Fred! Wake up! _Please_ wake up!” 

Neville ought to have cried, too. A sob stuck heatedly in his lungs. Fred had always been decent to him—never cruel on purpose, never had a problem with Neville asking you out. He had _liked_ Fred. Neville ought to have cried, too. Nothing came out of his mouth. 

“This way!” 

An unfamiliar adult voice broke him from the spell of your crying. He lurched forward, got his hand on the torn shoulder of your robe, tugged on it. 

“No!” you screeched, and threw yourself back onto the ground. You had eyes only for Fred, but the sound of gaining Death Eaters drew nearer. Neville again tried to pull you up. It was like trying to lift a boulder without magic, and he never been strong physically _or_ magically. Your sobbing continued. He doubted you even remembered he was there. 

“Oi, hear that?” said the same male voice from before. 

“Some crying kiddies,” a woman cackled in reply. 

“We have to go,” Neville said urgently, pulling you backward with all his might. His task was made all the more difficult by your constant struggle to return to Fred’s side. 

“No,” you said. “We have to help him. Let me go! I need to stay with him!” 

“There’s nothing more we can do for him,” Neville said over your heightened shrieks. The noise of spells exploding against the wall beyond you joined in the tumult. 

“Fred! Fred! Get up, Fred!” 

“[Name], please!” With a final burst of effort, Neville tore you away and threw you out of the path of those racing to you. Your crying stopped at once, but he did not think it was because he had surprised you with the force of his actions. Rather, it was because _he_ was crying now, not over Fred, but over you. The tears running down his cheeks stung where they touched the cuts he’d accumulated throughout the night. “I can’t lose you tonight. We’ll come back for him. I prom—” 

“ _Avada—_ ” 

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” 

Before he could react, he’d been nearly killed and promptly rescued. He did not so much as pause to look at his attacker. You stared at Neville over your extended wand, face glossy with your own tears. Slowly, your eyes drifted back to where Fred’s body lay. Neville shuddered. You stepped back toward him. Unable to watch, he closed his eyes… 

…only to feel your shaking hand wrap around his own and pull him after you down the hall. 

“Come on,” you said. “I don’t want anyone else I love to die tonight.” 

He nodded. You let him go. Side by side, you both sprinted up the hall, slinging your own curses at anyone who dared get in your way. It wasn’t fair, but Fred had to be forgotten for the time being. But Neville promised, deep inside his heart, that he’d get _you_ through this battle. _Then_ you’d go back for your brother. That time, Neville would be prepared to comfort you in any way you might need.


	2. Happiness [Oliver Wood]

A summer never felt shorter than the one that led to your sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This was the year you had been dreading for several before—not because of the difficulty of your N.E.W.Ts looming ahead, but because your sixth year would be your first in quite some time _alone_. When you settled into your favorite chair by the Gryffindor common room’s fire after the Welcoming Feast, it was not, as it had been the last _two_ years, to collapse into Oliver’s lap for a somewhat intimate hello. You sighed as you sank into the worn cushion underneath you, and cast a tired look out the dark window. 

“Where on _earth_ did you get that rock?” 

You turned a tiny smile on the wide grin that belonged to your best friend, Alicia Spinnet. Various duties had kept the two of you apart much of the day, but now she had the opportunity to fix her eyes directly upon your left hand. Your fingers wiggled in a teasing hello. 

“Noticed that, have you?” you asked, scooting over in the chair to make room for her. Alicia threw herself into the space without further invitation. It was true that you both did not fit as well together as you had as first years, but her closeness and warmth soothed some of the loneliness you felt. 

“Am I the first to see it?” she said. “Who _couldn’t_ notice? It’s huge! And you’re not exactly the jewelry type.” 

“Well, I had to make an exception. This one is special.” 

Alicia let out a squeal that made several of the recently-arrived first years jump—not that _she_ noticed, busy as she was hugging you. By the time she had finished, you were nearly as bright-faced and bashful as you’d been when you got the ring to begin with. 

“Alica…” you said in a strangled voice. 

Laughing, she gave your hair a lighthearted ruffle. “Here I was, about to ask how you were holding up, and you’ve already gone and got engaged! How did Oliver even know to _get_ you an engagement ring?” 

Your right hand twisted absently at the silver band on your left. “I think he must have to talked to my dad about it. You know Oliver came to meet my parents a few days before we left for the World Cup. He was holed up in Dad’s library forever.” 

“And your parents are okay with you getting married so young? You haven’t even graduated yet!” 

“They know that Oliver makes me happy. Besides,” you smirked, “it’s not that young for a witch. I’ll be of age this very year.” 

She shot you an appraising look. No one besides yourself knew your parents better than Alicia, who had been popping in and out of the house since you were twelve. “I’ll bet they’re thinking you’ll break up before the end of the year. Long distance is hard.” 

“Not going to happen. I love him.” 

“You’ll have Hogsmeade weekends at least.” 

“Yeah,” a wistful note crept into your voice, “so long as Puddlemere United doesn’t need him.” 

When Alicia touched your hair a second time, her hand was lighter. “If anyone can make it work, you two will. I mean, if he proposed to you the night of the _World Cup_ …” 

“It means he loves me just as much as Quidditch,” you finished. 

“That’s right.” 

Another smile spread slowly across your face. You had been planning to keep this under your school-issued pointy hat for a little longer, but why wait? Alicia didn’t think you were being an idiot. “We’ve already settled on a date,” you said, working hard to sound casual. “You’ll be my maid of honor?” 

She stared. Your skipped one beat, then skipped another. Just when you had begun to despair that Alicia didn’t _really_ approve of your upcoming nuptials, she let out a scream of delight even louder than before. 

“Yes, yes! A thousand times yes!” Her embrace was swift. “Have you guys picked your colors? What should I wear? Where—” 

“Excuse me.” One of the younger students, a new prefect, you guessed at the sight of her gleaming badge, said. The girl stood by your chair, and didn’t look happy. “I’d appreciate it if you could take this conversation to your dormitory? You’re upsetting the first years.” 

You opened your mouth to tell her where she could shove it. Before you had the opportunity, Alicia smiled at her, wrapped her hand around yours, and pulled you up out of the chair and toward the stairs. 

“Sure thing,” she said easily, but as she led you toward your dormitory, Alicia caught your eye. A few stifled snickers turned into a gale of laughter. Disapproving fifth years or no, you realized your year without Oliver could still be full of happiness, only to grow all the more when you reunited with him again.


	3. Sorrow [Sirius Black]

Never before had the Burrow felt as oppressively silent than the evening Remus Lupin at last worked up the nerve to attend to a long-procrastinated errand. A new moon lent an almost suffocating darkness to the scene. The house itself was nearly entirely black, save for a single square of warm candlelight coming from the kitchen on the first floor. No one in the floors above spoke or stirred. Steeling himself, he knocked on the door. 

It opened at once. Molly Weasley looked more tired than Remus had ever seen her. Had he not known better, he might have suspected her of struggling with lycanthropy herself, so deep were the bags underneath her eyes. For her sake, he did not remark on them. Sleep was a luxury none of the Order could afford, especially during those past few weeks. 

The two exchanged the usual testing greeting, then he stepped inside. An empty kitchen awaited him. There was no sign that it was in use at present, save for a candle and a copy of the latest _Daily Prophet_ on the table. Remus lifted his eyebrows as he turned to look at Molly. 

“I’ve kept you up,” he said in a soft voice. 

She attempted to smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m waiting up for Arthur. I just don’t feel safe sleeping when it’s just me and the children.” 

“And [Name].” 

Molly hesitated. “And [Name],” she agreed, as she cast a sharp look at the ghostly staircase just visible in the dim light that spilled into the nearby living room. “I told her to expect you tonight, but of course she isn’t down here.” 

“How is she?” The question was difficult to ask. Remus was not even sure he wanted to hear the answer—and his dread increased at the softening in Molly’s expression. 

“Not well at all, I’m afraid. Tea?” 

He got the feeling she offered more out of a need for something to do with her hands than a real desire to welcome him. Whatever Molly might have said, a midnight visit could only be an inconvenience on top of a pile of inconveniences. Smiling, he answered, “No, thank you. I won’t keep you long. When you say she’s not well…?” 

“I _mean_ she’s not well.” With a great air of exhaustion, she slid into her vacated seat at the table and momentarily hid her face in her hands. “She won’t eat. She won’t drink. Hardly sleeps. We can’t get her to talk to anyone.” 

“It sounds as though she ought to go to St. Mungo’s.” 

“Don’t think we haven’t suggested it. The last time Arthur offered to take her, she nearly cursed him.” 

Pity welled in the pit of Remus’ stomach. Everyone had known this arrangement would not be fair to the Weasleys, who already had so many members of their own family to worry about, but where else could you have gone? Grimmauld Place was no longer a haven, physically or mentally. Neither could you have gone with Remus where his work took him. With Sirius gone, you were quite as alone as Remus always was. 

“I’m sorry, Molly.” 

She seemed startled by the apology. “Don’t be! We don’t mind looking after her, the poor dear. It would just be nice if she were a little more…cooperative.” 

“I’ll speak to her about cursing Arthur this very night.” 

“If anyone can make her see sense, you can.” To this statement, Remus could make no reply. He wondered if he was not now nothing more than a painful reminder for you, after Sirius’ death. “She’s staying in the twin’s old room for now. Here, I’ll show you.” 

“I can find it myself,” he said before she could stand up. “If I’m not very much mistaken, your clock says Arthur is on his way. Stay here. Greet him. If we need anything, I’ll let you know.” 

Molly’s lips thinned. Remus expected her to argue. Then she let out a long sigh, nodded gratefully, and looked over her shoulder at the clock propped up in the chair across from her. Sure enough, her husband’s hand had leapt from “mortal danger” to “travelling.” 

“It’s the door that smells like smoke. You can’t miss it,” she said. 

“Thank you.” 

One whispered word from his wand, and the tip ignited. Remus followed its beam through the cozy living room and up the stairs. He had not climbed far when, true to Molly’s word, the twang of smoke filled his nostrils. Pausing to listen for signs of life inside the room brought him nothing. Well, all he could do then was what he had come to do. The sooner he got things over with, the sooner he could leave the Weasleys in peace. 

His quiet knock drew no answer, which did not surprise him given the hour. Waiting for a more reasonable time to wake you, however, was not an option. He was expected back on duty before sunrise. After a moment in which he allowed himself to imagine a better world in which this conversation was not necessary, Remus put his hand on the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed the door open. 

The black room smelled of smoke mixed with unwashed hair. No light save for that from his wand broke the dark. Small stacks of boxes caught the gleam, looking oddly flat inside the white glow. He followed their path with his eyes until they reached the bed, then brought his gaze further up to the woman sitting upon it. Only after he had adjusted to seeing in the dark did he notice how gaunt that woman was. 

One month had passed since Sirius died. In that time, your skin had shrunk to cling to your bones; your eyes had sank into your skull; and your hair had transformed into a wild, tangled nest. In short, you looked almost like Sirius had in his wanted posters—and _he_ had spent twelve years in Azkaban. 

“Remus?” you croaked through a throat dry with disuse. 

His smile that time was the hardest bought of the evening, and he was thankful that he could drop it when he turned to pull the door shut behind him. 

“ _Nox_ ,” he said, picking his way over to the bed stand. The candle there lit with a jab of his wand. You both blinked at each other in the sudden flood of light. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked him. 

“I’ve been planning to visit for weeks. Surely Molly told you.” 

You shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d really come.” 

All the time you spoke, your eyes remained fixed on the chipped wall. Remus moved to sit on the bed next to you. Even that didn’t seem to jar you at all. 

“Why wouldn’t I come?” he said. His tone was gentle, patient. The last thing he expected was for his question to bring tears to your red-rimmed eyes. 

“Because it was my fault,” you said, so listlessly that Remus suspected you’d been saying the exact same words to yourself for weeks. 

“Why would you—” 

“ _Don’t_.” Though you still would not look at him, your voice cracked. “I can’t hear that it wasn’t my fault. Not from you.” 

Remus very carefully looped his arm around your back. The smell of your dirty hair intensified. He hardly noticed; werewolves often smelled worse than that. You, at least, did not reek of blood, only pain and despair. 

A tiny shudder pressed its way up your spine, as though you had to suppress the urge to tip your head onto his shoulder. Gone was the little girl the Marauders had adopted as their own during her second year. Remus did not believe that he would ever get see that girl again. 

“If you can’t hear it from a friend, who _can_ you hear it from?” he asked. 

“You wouldn’t be my friend,” you said, “if you knew.” 

“We’ve been friends for years, [Name]. _Nothing_ can change that.” 

“This would.” 

“Sirius dying was not your fault.” 

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” 

“Then what—” Before he could finish his sentence, you snapped your face in his direction. The vacancy in your eyes drew him short. He had seen that look before, in his parents eyes so long ago, but never in yours. You shivered again, this time so forcefully that the motion rocked the bed. Your tongue snaked out of your lips to wet your mouth. 

“I—” Nothing more came out. Your eyes shut as you shook your head. “I—I—I—” 

“[Name], it’s _okay_. You don’t have to—” 

“We were _expecting_ ,” you choked out at last. 

Stunned, Remus could do nothing as something inside you burst. Sleeping children lay above and below, but they were forgotten in the moment. You sobbed so hard it sounded as though your chest might crack open. Still he gaped, frozen in place. He had to cough several time before he found the voice to say: 

“You’re pregnant?” 

Your crying continued. You only shook your head wildly as the noise increased in volume. 

“But you just said…” 

“I lost the baby,” you moaned into your knees. A chill like that of a dementor attack filled the room. Your tears drained slowly away into continued sniffles and hiccups. “The night h-he died. When—When Kingsley told me—I—it’s _gone_! Sirius didn't even know. I hadn't told him yet. Now it doesn't matter. They're _both_ dead.” 

“But…” 

No, it made sense. For so long, you’d been alone. James and Lily dead. Peter blasted to bits. Sirius locked away for their murders. In many ways, you and Remus had only had each for twelve years. Even that had been strained. You could not believe Sirius capable of betraying your makeshift collection of older brothers. Remus could not afford to believe otherwise. Then—to get Sirius back—to be with him again—to have your faith confirmed—only to lose him not once, but twice. The grief of it. Who could have stood it? 

“Oh, [Name],” he breathed. 

“He’s gone. The baby’s gone. If I had just been _stronger,_ maybe just one of them would still be here.” 

It wasn’t your fault. That much remained true. Remus wanted to repeat the fact, but the words simply wouldn’t leave his lungs. There you sat, crying in his arms, heartsick in the worst of ways, and he, your last remaining friend, could do nothing to comfort you. 

So he did the only thing he could, and that was to cry with you, for your lost friend, for your lost child. It wouldn’t solve your problems or his own, but maybe, just maybe, the shared grief might help you finally start to heal.


	4. Belong [Harry Potter]

The summer prior to your seventh year was the coldest in your memory. It was not just the breeding of dementors that caused the chill, either. Sixteen had not been good year for you. The slow rise of Voldemort had seen the loss of many things: your normal life, your family, and—worst of all—Albus Dumbledore, the one person who had tried to keep a young, distraught woman intact. Staring out upon the misty yard of the Weasley home, you felt as numb and as hopeless as the night you’d got the owl saying your parents had died in the line of duty. 

“What are you looking at, [Name]? You’ve been awfully quiet.” 

You turned at last from Ron’s bedroom window. Three others crowded the tiny space: Ron himself, Hermione, and, of course, Harry. It was the last who had interrupted your deluge of thoughts. The trio had been talking among themselves, you realized, and you hadn’t heard a word. Bashful, you stepped carefully through Hermione’s large spread of books to sit next to her on the small bed. Her frown deepened the closer you got to her. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You don’t look so well.” 

What _wasn’t_ wrong was a better question. All the same, you didn’t want to intrude on their planning. Mrs. Weasley hadn’t given any of you a chance to sit down since Harry arrived. You shook your head as you pulled your knees to your chest to give Ron more walking room. Hermione, however, knew you well enough to press the issue. 

“[Name]…” 

“I was thinking,” you said slowly, “about how I won’t get to go back to school.” 

“Why wouldn’t you be able to go back to school?” said Harry. Even as you smiled at him, your fingers clapped around your forearm. The raised skin there felt hard through the fabric of your top. He knew better than anyone what direction your thoughts were going, and scowled as he added, “That shouldn’t be an issue.” 

“It shouldn’t be, but it will be,” Ron said absently, only to have Harry turn his scowl on him instead. 

“Dumbledore—” 

“Dumbledore’s gone, Harry,” said Hermione. 

“McGonagall won’t—” 

“McGonagall won’t have a choice.” You sounded tired, and you were. Those same thoughts had been playing through your mind on repeat every night since your former headmaster’s death. It was hard to believe that a mere year ago, you had had both parents _and_ a healthy body. “Voldemort’s got his claws into the Ministry. They’re not going to let a _werewolf_ go to school.” 

“She won’t _let_ them ban you. She’ll fight it.” 

“And they’ll get her fired and replaced with a Death Eater. Or they’ll just kill her outright. Face it, Harry. Hogwarts needs Professor McGonagall more than it needs me.” No one needed you. In the face of Harry’s fierce gaze, you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and stared at your bare feet to avoid him seeing. 

“That’s not fair,” he said at last. 

You had to smile at that. “No, it’s not. I just don’t where I’ll go instead.” 

“Well, that’s obvious,” said Ron. “You’ll stay here. Mum and Dad won’t kick you out.” 

Molly and Arthur had shown you a great kindness in opening their home to you that summer. They’d known your parents well, had practically been your adopted aunt and uncle while you’d been growing up. So long as Lupin came by once a month with a Wolfsbane Potion, you were not a danger to them…but you were still another mouth to feed in a difficult time, another obstacle to the Weasleys managing a happy life. How could you stay, knowing that? A werewolf in the house would only make things harder for Arthur at work. 

“No,” you said. “I’ll probably go abroad. My parents left me some money. Maybe I’ll go to America, and—” 

“You’ll come with us.” 

A beat of silence followed Harry’s proclamation. Ron and Hermione exchanged a look you didn’t understand—not that you could spare much thought about its meaning, given how busy you were gaping at Harry. 

“ _What_?” you gasped. 

“You’ll come with us. We can’t go back to Hogwarts either. It makes sense.” 

Your nervous laughter lifted into the air. “No, it doesn’t. You’ve already said you didn’t want me coming.” 

“I’ve changed my mind.” 

“I’m not asking for your pity.” 

“This isn’t pity.” 

“Do you think I’m going to run off to America and fall in love with some other boy?” 

“Hardly.” 

“Good,” you said. You knew how lucky you were, to have a boyfriend that didn’t care that you’d been bitten. When the other students flung curses at you even after Dumbledore had allowed you to continue your education, Harry had gone out of his way to protect you. You _loved_ him. But you wouldn’t ask him for more than he had already given you. “I can’t come with you. Wherever you’re going, I’m sure Wolfsbane Potions will be light on the ground.” 

“Actually…” Every eye in the room swiveled to Hermione. As usual when it to came her myriad talents, she remained perfectly blasé as she continued, “I’ve been practicing, and I think I’ve got the finer details down. Keeping you docile at the full moon shouldn’t be a problem at all.” 

Hermione doing this—especially after all the times she’d given you a shoulder to cry on the year before—broke your heart. “That’s lovely,” you said in a hushed voice, “but we won’t exactly be able to get ingredients on the fly.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve been making regular orders in bulk all summer. There’s enough to keep you in stock for at least a year inside my bag.” 

The statement struck you speechless. A desire to cry swallowed you so fully that for several minutes you were capable only of preventing yourself from doing so. Eventually, you were able to croak out: 

“Why?” 

Ron smirked as he reached over to clap your back. “Neither of us really thought Harry would be able to leave you behind, mate. I’ve been taking notes from Lupin whenever he visits, too. You know, so we can make sure you’re comfortable while we’re on the road.” 

Now you couldn’t help but allow the tears to run down your cheeks. Harry caught your eye and nodded. 

“So it’s settled. You’re coming.” 

“Th-thank you,” you said through a hiccup. Then, before anything else could be said, Ron leaned in closer for a hug. Hermione followed suit. So did Harry, until you were tangled up in the arms of all your closest friends, laughing and crying at the same time. Yes, you were more alone than you’d ever been in your life in some ways, but as far as you were concerned, in that moment, there had never been a place you’d more belonged.


	5. Longing [Tom Riddle]

Valentine’s Day: an otherwise normal day of classes at Hogwarts, broken up only by couples getting a little _too_ close. As the entire castle headed for the Great Hall for dinner that night, many voices joined together in plans for the next Hogsmeade visit. Your voice did _not_ take part. You were far too busy loitering in front of the Hall’s doors and worrying over what came next to think of anything so mundane as as Hogsmeade weekend. 

“And what are _you_ doing? As though I don’t already know.” 

Once the shock of being so suddenly addressed passed, you found the source of the question: a tall, willowy, beautiful witch gliding down the last step of the stairs nearby. It was Mary Allister, your best friend, and the absolute _last_ person you wanted to see at that moment. 

“I could ask the same of you,” you grumbled when she was close enough to hear you. Your sullen greeting only caused Mary to grin wickedly. 

“I wouldn’t miss _this_ for tickets to the next World Cup,” she said. “Little Miss Perfect, about to make an absolute fool of herself!” 

Blush flooded your cheeks. “I’m _not_ making a fool of myself.” 

She tossed her head proudly, making a display with her glossy dark hair that hardly improved your confidence. “Your blood isn’t anywhere _near_ pure enough to tempt Tom Riddle. That sounds foolish to _me_.” 

“He’s an _orphan_. No one knows who his parents are. My blood might be _purer_ than his.” 

“Does he even know you exist?” 

“He will after this! Now are you here to encourage me, or make fun of me?” 

“Oh, a little of both. Better hurry, unless you want to wait until next year to talk to him.” 

Gasping, you whirled about to face the other direction. Sure enough, Tom Riddle was there, leaving dinner while deep in conversation with a fellow Slytherin boy. Months of planning might have soon been for nothing had you not called out, “Tom!” before you could stop yourself. 

He and his friend drew to a stop. So unexpected was that development that you froze up. Mary had to give you a rough shove to get you moving again, and even then, the handsome man ahead continued to look around for someone _else’s_ approach until you stood right in front of him. 

“Yes?” he said after a brief pause. 

Egads, he was beautiful. What had you been thinking? Mary was right. Pure-blood or not, Tom Riddle was far too smart, gorgeous, _and_ talented for the likes of you, whether or not you _were_ prefect, top of your class, and a quidditch team captain. 

“What do you want, girl?” Tom’s friend demanded. You gave a slight start, then shoved a small parcel into Tom’s chest. 

“I-I-I wanted to give you this,” you stammered. 

“What is it?” Tom asked as he took the package. If you’d been red before, now you were the color of a Chinese Fireball. 

You swallowed. “A…Valentine’s Day present.” 

Something in his dark eyes seemed to flicker. He looked…angry. But you must have imagined that, because he blinked a second later and looked again his pleasant self. “You’re [F Name] [L Name], correct?” 

He knew? Your voice lost, all you could manage in was a nod. 

“Professor Dumbledore speaks very highly of you. It’s a pleasure to meet at last.” 

“We’re going to be late for our meeting with Professor Slughorn,” said the other boy, impatient. 

“Coming, Lestrange. I’ll open this later,” he added to you as he pocketed the gift. “Good evening, [Name]. I hope to see you again.” 

Just like that, he and Lestrange were gone, leaving you to gape after them. Mary, once she arrived, was just as stunned as you were. Only getting some warm roast into your stomach started to wake you back up—and that only long enough to shoot straight to cloud nine. Mary had been wrong. Half-blood or not, you _might_ have had a chance with Tom Riddle after all.


	6. Secret [Remus Lupin]

“Eh, Remus?” 

A soft voice broke the stuffy silence of Hogwarts’ library. Night had fallen; curfew was near; Remus had thought he was the only student that remained cramming for the following morning’s Potions exam. The rest of his friends had returned to Gryffindor Tower long ago. He almost thought he’d imagined the voice, but when his tired eyes dragged upward, he found you standing next to his table. You frowned in the steadily fading candlelight. 

“Oh, hello, [Name].” A thin smile was offered to you as Remus gently closed his book on antidotes. “What are you doing up so late?” 

“I could ask you the same question,” you replied. 

“Studying.” 

“So close to curfew?” 

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Why not?” 

To his great concern, your frown only deepened. Had he said something wrong? He must have, for instead of bidding him goodnight and leaving to check out your things before the library closed, you pulled out the chair next to him and took a seat. 

“Remus, you don’t look _well_.” 

He blinked owlishly at you, relieved that in the darkness you could not see the red creeping into his face, and that Sirius was not nearby to make a mountain out of a niffler mound. A nervous finger stretched out the worn collar of his ill-fitting robes. “I feel fine.” 

“You’ve got bags under your eyes again, and you’re all pale.” 

“Oh, that. I’ve told you before, I always look like this.” At least so close to the full moon, Remus always looked like that. The following evening, he’d be running through the forest with James and Sirius and Peter—but _you_ couldn’t know that. You couldn’t know why he looked sickly every few weeks. Keeping you in the dark might have been easier, unfortunately, if you hadn’t taken a sudden interest in him at the beginning of the term. 

“Not _always_.” Scowling, you crossed your arms over your chest. 

“Often enough to _be_ always.” 

“And that’s supposed to make me not worry?” 

Yes, Remus decided, he was very glad that Sirius and James weren’t there to hear this. Your [color] eyes gleamed at him through the dimness. By then, his blush had climbed high enough that his ears burned. “You shouldn’t be worried at all,” he answered as he tried to pick his book up casually, despite the lengthy pause that had preceded his reply. He didn’t manage it quite fast enough, and saw your eyes narrow before he got his back on the page. 

You didn’t move. Somewhere in the back of the library, an old grandfather clock ticked off the minutes. For all of Remus’ running his eyes across the words, not a single one sank into his mind. He could concentrate on nothing but your closeness, your staring at him…and something Sirius had said earlier that very year: 

_“So, I spotted you and [L Name] walking to class together today.”_

_“So?”_

_“So? That’s the third time this week!”_

_“She had a question about the Transfiguration homework, that’s all.”_

_“Didn’t look like a homework question to me.”_

_“Meaning?”_

_“You two looked…cozy.”_

_“There’s nothing cozy about that corridor in the middle of winter.”_

_“She’s clearly in love with you, Moony! When are you going to ask her out?”_

_“How about never?”_

_“Never! Why never?”_

_“You know why never. She can’t know my secret.”_

_“You can take a girl out without telling her your whole life story.”_

_“Well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”_

_“Actually, I would.”_

_“You want me to be miserable.”_

_“I want you to be_ happy. _You deserve that.”_

_“I’m not going to ask [Name] out. There’s no point in encouraging her.”_

_“Suit yourself. An afternoon with you in Hogsmeade might cure her of her interest, at least. Think about it, Remus, won’t you?”_

“You don’t _feel_ warm.” 

Remus blinked hard, and found himself back in your company in the library. You had a hand pressed to his forehead and another frown pulling down your lips. Embarrassed, he brushed your hand away, avoiding your gaze once more. “It’s because I’m _fine_ , [Name].” 

Was it his imagination that _you_ blushed that time? Suddenly shy, you gathered your books into your arms and quickly cleared your throat. “Right.” Your voice sounded oddly high as you turned toward the door. “Sorry to have bothered you, Remus. Goodnight.” 

He watched you go with an odd sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. No girl had ever shown an interest in _him_ before. How could they, with Sirius and—to a slightly lesser extent—James always hanging around? While the rest of his group, including Peter, dated and fell in love and experienced heartbreak, Remus had watched on, telling himself that he preferred to be alone. That he deserved to be alone. That even without the werewolf problem factored in, his shabby appearance would drive any woman away. He could not provide after Hogwarts, could not support a family. Better that his hopes not rise only to be dashed. Better to be alone than a destroyer of lives. 

But then there was you: walking him to class, giving him homemade Pepperup Potions after the full moon, stolidly ignoring James’ and Sirius’ incessant teasing. Remus realized he might not have been as okay with being alone as he’d once thought. Maybe Sirius was right. Maybe one date wouldn’t get anyone hurt. 

Books forgotten, Remus stood and walked briskly toward the hall. “Library is closing, Lupin, dear,” said the librarian. “Don’t you need your things?” 

He didn’t hear her. As soon as one foot was safely inside the corridor, he broke into a trot. So close to curfew, the halls were mostly empty. No sign of you lay up ahead, and he worried he might not spot you until after you’d re-entered the Tower, upon which hope all would be lost, as he wouldn’t dare do what he was about to do in front of his friends, and it wasn’t likely he’d work up the nerve to ever try again. 

By the time he reached the corner around which the entrance to the Gryffindor common room sat, he was sprinting. So close to his time of the month, exerting himself did not feel good—but it was worth it, for as soon as he rounded that corner, he saw you preparing to give the password to the Fat Lady. 

“[Name]!” he called. To his relief, you paused. Better still, you did not look angry once he arrived, panting, to stand in front of you. 

“Remus?” you said, bewildered. When he could not answer for gasping for air, you crouched to look at his shining face. “What’s wrong? Do you need the nurse?” 

“No!” With a great deal of effort, he straightened and managed to quit wheezing. Your confusion did not vanish, but neither did you rush him to explain himself. You waited politely until he was able to say, “I wanted to know if…if you’d like to go into Hogsmeade with me this weekend.” 

Astonishment showed so plainly on your face that Remus thought he must have mistaken your intentions. Sirius was not often wrong about women, but he was often wrong about everything else. Could you be the first combination of both? When you rearranged your expression into a furrowed brow, his conviction deepened. Then you said: 

“Will Potter and Black be there?” 

“Er…” Lying would certainly not set this whole affair off on the right foot. “Probably. But I’ll try to convince them to stay out of sight at least.” 

Your answering smile was radiant. “Then I’d love to.” 

Remus heard you fine, but even after all his effort, he could not be sure. “You…you will?” 

“Of course. I’ve only been trying to get you to ask me out since September.” 

He beamed at you. You smiled right back. Several minutes of standing like that in happy silence were interrupted by the Fat Lady impatiently clearing her throat. 

“ _Well_?” she said. Starting, you turned your attention back to the painting. 

“Sorry! Password’s Devil’s Snare.” 

“Thank you.” 

Slightly pink in the face, you looked back at Remus as the Tower’s entrance appeared. “Shall we?” 

“After you.” 

Going in first himself seemed a better idea after clambering in to find his trio of friends lying in wait right beyond the opening. They grinned wickedly at you and Remus in turn. To your credit, you only gave them each a cool nod before heading for the stairs. “Potter. Black. Pettigrew.” 

“Hi—Hi, [Name]!” Peter squeaked. 

Only after you’d disappeared did Remus relax—not that James had any intention of letting him do so. He and Sirius caught each other’s eye in such a fashion that Remus _almost_ began to regret what he’d just done. _Almost_. 

“So,” said James. “What was that about?” 

“Nothing,” Remus answered, and was rewarded with seeing Sirius’ face fall with disappointment. 

“ _Nothing_?” he repeated. 

“Just studying for the test. I’m tired. Think I’ll turn in.” 

He could only imagine their expressions after he stepped past them. A small smile worked its way onto Remus’ face. For once, he had a _good_ secret to keep. He _felt_ good, despite the moon in his dormitory window beaming almost fully fattened far above, and it was all thanks to you.


	7. Regret [Severus Snape]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeaaaah, the entire premise of this one really is a stretch. I don't know what I was thinking when I settled on it.

Morning arrived too gray and dreary to fill the small bedroom with sun. You woke with your hair splayed across an unfamiliar pillow, and thin, threadbare sheets twisted around your body. For a bleary moment, you wondered what in Merlin's name could have interrupted your sleep. The fog pressed against the nearby window was too dark and quiet to have done so. Then you realized that the body next to yours was stirring. 

A hook-nosed, greasy-haired man rose slowly from the bed. At the sight of his scrawny naked back, all your memories of the night before came flooding back—the kind of memories that ached. 

“Where are _you_ going?” you snarled as Severus Snape extracted himself from the covers. He turned a quizzical black eye to you. At once, you snatched the sheets up and over your bare chest. During the previous night, Snape had seen more of your body than any man in your life, and yet shame burned in your cheeks at his seeing it in the relative light of day. That his gaze never once strayed from your face only fanned those flames higher. 

“To see the Dark Lord,” Snape answered at last. 

You peeked under the covers at the skin of your left forearm. “I didn’t feel my Mark burn.” 

One of those false smiles of his that you so despised played across his mouth. “The call is for me alone. Or are you displeased to have your husband torn away from you so soon?” 

A hard grin of your own met his. “Trying to get away from me already?” 

“Forgive me.” Snape inclined his head. “I had not _realized_ you wished to keep me around now that the deed has been done. Shall I ask him for more time for an, ah, honeymoon?” 

“I can ask him myself if I so wish!” The nerve of Snape, to stand before you exposed and _laugh_ at you. If he had not been the favorite of your master, you would have hexed him on the spot. “And I do not wish it,” you added. “I do not wish to see you ever again. Go on your ‘mission,’ and _die_. I would like it better that way.” 

He tutted. “We’ve only been married a day. Let us not start quarreling. After all, the Dark Lord has blessed our marriage himself.” 

“I had no choice in the matter, as you very well know!” 

“ _Perhaps_ if you had been a little more like your sisters and found a suitable pure-blood spouse—” 

“I would have been more useless to him.” 

“—he would not have seen fit to reward me by giving you to me,” Snape finished as though you hadn’t interrupted. 

“I am not chattel!” you snapped. 

“If you had not been so enamored with a certain Sirius Black…” 

“Do not,” you jumped out of bed, taking the blankets with you, “speak to _me_ of Sirius Black!” 

Your anger did not disturb him. “He thought of you like every other girl that came onto him, but he knew what you were. _He_ wouldn’t touch you, would he?” 

“Shut up!” 

“And now you _are_ chattel, to be bred for the pure world to come, and you deign to act as though the Dark Lord did not do you a favor by finding you a willing husband.” 

“At least Sirius Black was pure!” you screamed. “What about _you_? How are you any better? You and your obsession with that filthy mudblood—” Your words choked off as your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. In front of you, Snape held his wand, snatched from the bedside table, his already ghoulish face twisted with rage. 

“Do not,” he breathed heavily, “ _ever_ speak of Lily Evans that way again.” 

Unable to answer, you simply glared at him. 

“Do you understand?” he shouted. 

Again, you made no motion to reply. There was a flash of light, and you flew into the air where you dangled from your ankle. Your only source of coverage slid to the floor. You were naked, and no matter how you struggled, you could not free yourself from Snape’s spell. 

He took his sweet time sauntering toward your slowly twisting body. All the shadows in the room put his hooked nose in higher relief than ever. Still unable to speak, you glowered at him until the two of you were practically face to face. 

“I,” he said in that high, dangerous voice of his, “am no more _pleased_ by this situation than you are. However, if the Dark Lord wills it, we have no choice. We must make do. But if you ever, _ever_ ,” he grabbed your upside down chin, “speak of Lily Evans again, I assure you that I will do everything in my power to convince the Dark Lord your services do not require a tongue. Do I make myself clear?” 

Your lips curled. A stupid mudblood could ruin your life even so long after her well-deserved death. Well, if your beloved husband wanted to spend his years pining over Lily Evans, you could at least appreciate her causing him pain. 

As Snape let go of you and took a step back, you felt your tongue unstick. He raised a single eyebrow when you continued to keep quiet. 

“Well?” he asked. 

What choice did you have? If Snape had threatened you with death, there would have been no question of your decision. What he promised was far worse. However hard you had worked, whatever loyalty you had shown, the Dark Lord had more use for the man that stood in front of you. 

“Yes,” you spat. 

The saliva at his feet only brought a cold smile to his face. “Very good.” With that, he walked to the room’s wardrobe to dress. Before he turned to apparate, he looked at you again. “Do _try_ to be patient. I’ll be home soon. _Then_ we can begin our life of happily wedded bliss.” 

At the same time he disappeared, you fell onto the bed. Your pillow muffled the hot, angry tears that bubbled up from inside you. Your sisters had been right. All that time, you thought _you_ had mattered to your master, but in the end, your life had turned just as foggy and dark as the day outside the window.


	8. Loneliness [Albus Potter]

Albus Severus Potter sat by the edge of the lake, brooding as he often did when left to his own devices. There was not much else to do. It was the end of December and so bitterly cold that even the giant squid could not crack the ice on top of its home. The Hogwarts grounds lay silent under several feet of fresh snow. No one remained out of doors to build snow forts or to have snowball fights. Albus was alone, or so he thought. 

A distant voice came to him on the wind. Another lousy ghost, he figured, or, worse, James home from vacation early. He huddled closer to his jar of fire and ignored whoever it was calling. They would leave eventually. They always did. 

“…Albus? Is that you, Albus?” The noise of boots on ice accompanied the voice once it was nearer. What was more, the voice belonged to someone he knew, and that someone was _not_ his brother. Blinking, he shifted on the freezing shore to watch your approach. 

“[Name]?” he asked. “What are you doing out here alone?” 

You placed your hands on your hips in a characteristic gesture. “I could ask you the same thing. May I sit down?” 

“Oh. Sure.” He scrambled a bit away to allow you room beside the fire jar. You took it, prodded the jar with your wand, muttered, and sat back as the warmth and light intensified. 

“That’s better.” 

“So?” Albus prompted you. 

“So…what?” 

“What are you doing here?” 

You frowned. “Looking for you, obviously.” 

“Why would you be looking for _me_?” 

You and Albus were not even in the same House. As evidenced by the enormous black-and-yellow striped scarf thrown around your neck, you were in Hufflepuff. You were friendly enough in the classes you both shared—Care of Magical Creatures and Defense Against the Dark Arts—after Scorpius had charmed a particularly threatening older Gryffindor for you, but that didn’t mean you were _friends_. Only in third year, and you were keeper for your house team. He’d seen James eyeing you often enough to know what _that_ meant. 

“Don’t you want some company?” you asked, instead of answering his question. 

Albus scowled. “I stayed here because I _didn’t_.” And what a row that had been. It had taken the combined efforts of his mother, aunt, and uncle to keep his father from flying to Hogsmeade to retrieve him. James and Lily would have a field day teasing him when they got back. 

“Well, _I_ stayed because I did. Where’s Scorpius?” 

“At home with his father. Why don’t you just leave me alone, [Name]?” 

“I just _told_ you. If I wanted to spend Christmas alone, I’d have gone back to the orphanage.” 

“Go spend it with someone in Hufflepuff, then,” Albus muttered. 

“Spoken like a true Slytherin.” That got him angry enough to look at you. You grinned. “Come on, Albus. Let’s get where it’s warm.” 

When he saw you reaching for his hand over the jar, he remembered all over again why James liked you so much. You were lithe from quidditch practice, with clear skin and eyes that held a dancing warmth that Albus almost never had directed at him by others. Why did you have to come outside and remind him of what he couldn’t have? 

“Just leave me alone, [Name],” he said crossly. He had never had to talk to you without Scorpius around before. Albus found he didn’t like it. “ _You_ go where it’s warm. I like it out here.” 

Finally, you frowned. “You’re being a right brat right now, you know?” 

“So? If you wanted someone _friendly_ to talk to, you should have gone looking for James.” 

“If I wanted to talk to your brother,” you crossed your arms over your chest, “I’d have gone home with him for Christmas when he invited me.” 

A cold that had nothing to do with the wintery air froze him to the core. He gaped in the face of your grumpy expression. James had gone that far? Albus swallowed. 

“My brother?” he asked. 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Invited you to _our_ house for Christmas?” 

“Earth to Albus. That’s what I just said.” 

He opened and closed his mouth twice more while his brain connected the dots. James wasn’t just _looking_ at you; he was actively _pursuing_ you! No matter how much James received—friends, loving parents, good grades, popularity—he had decided that he had to take you, too. 

With a jolt, Albus stood, knocking his only heat and light source into the snow. His hands balled into fists. “Well, that’s just great!” he spat. “Why don’t you just send an owl to James, then? I’m sure my father can arrange to floo you over there!” 

Angry tears burned his eyes. He didn’t wait for your reply before he turned to run back toward the dark shape of the castle on the horizon. One thing! James couldn’t even let him have this one thing! 

_“Petrificus Totalus!”_

One second, Albus was moving at a decent clip. The next, each of his limbs snapped against his body. He toppled backward into a drift. 

“Albus Severus Potter!” you shouted as you appeared above him. Your cheeks had gone dark. “I know this is a lot to ask of you, but could you stop being an idiot for five minutes and listen to me?” 

Seeing as you still had him in a full-body bind, he had very little choice but to do so. 

“If I had wanted to spend the holidays with your sainted brother, I’d have gone. I _didn’t_! Crazy as this sounds, I really wanted to spend them with _you_!” 

You breathed heavily and watched him. Only after several chilly minutes of silence did you remember that Albus was unable to answer you. The counter was uttered, and a hand offered to pull him up. He took the hand that time. 

“You…don’t like James?” he asked, feeling a little bit ashamed of himself. 

“No. He’s a prat. Why would I date a guy that treats my friends like dragon dung?” 

“We’re friends?” 

You nodded. “Could be better if you’d quit hiding behind Scorpius all the time. And wouldn’t yell at me when I’m worried you’ll get frostbite.” 

“I’m sorry,” Albus said. “I just…my brother…” 

“You don’t have to explain it. Having a family must be rough.” 

He chuckled. “You have no idea.” 

“Great. Now that we’re on the right feet again,” the familiar twinkle reappeared in your eyes, “will you _please_ come play gobstones with me in the Castle? I’m lonely; I’m bored; and I’ve already filched a whole tray of turkey sandwiches from the kitchens.” 

The two of you were almost back inside when he realized: 

“A whole tray? So you knew I’d come all along!” 

You flashed him a knowing look as you pulled open the doors. “I had an idea.” 

For the first time that day, a slow smile spread across Albus’ face. He followed you through the winding halls of the school and then—surreptitiously, in case anyone or their cat might be watching—into the otherwise empty Hufflepuff common room. There all was bright and warm, including your smile. You won every round of gobstones, but happy, full of food, and feeling that James might not have got _everything_ he’d wanted for Christmas, Albus didn’t mind. That holiday, James was missing something that Albus wasn’t: your friendship, and the subtle promise of something more.


	9. Grace [Viktor Krum]

Bright shone the day you arrived in Britain for the long-awaited wedding. One minute, you stood in comforting, familiar Sofia, the next in strange, unfamiliar Ottery St. Catchpole. The effects of the long-distance portkey showed in your dizzy steps that followed your arrival. You’d never have found where you were going had you not been steadied by a firm hand at your elbow. 

“Careful,” said Viktor in your shared native tongue. “Are you all right?” 

“The only thing I’ve hurt is my pride,” you assured him as you straightened yourself. “I’m still not used to traveling so far magically.” 

He smiled. “You should come to more of my games.” 

“And miss an opportunity for a great assignment that isn’t your record? I think not.” 

The smile on his face widened as Viktor moved his hand to yours. “Come along. We don’t want to be late.” 

To be honest, you would not have minded. You would not have minded missing the entire blasted ceremony. Going was important to Viktor, though, so you allowed him to pull you along beside him. _He_ knew where he was going, at least. The wide field in which you had landed seemed to stretch into the horizon in every direction. Soon enough—too soon for your liking—a strange shape reared up against the landscape. As you drew nearer, you realized the shape was a house with a large tent filled with people set up next to it. Sure enough, that tent was your destination. Viktor led you right to the entrance of it, where there stood a boy with a shock of bright blue hair waiting for guests. 

“Friends of the groom or the bride?” asked the boy. 

“Bride,” Viktor answered in English. The child nodded and made to show you to your seats. Before he could get more than a few steps ahead, he got a good look at Viktor, and froze in place. 

“ _You’re_ Viktor Krum!” he gasped. 

“That is me, yes.” 

One of the things you loved most about Viktor was his modesty. You’d been dating another member of the Bulgarian National quidditch team when the two of you had met. _That_ man certainly hadn’t known a thing about humility, and you were quite glad now that the relationship hadn’t worked out. Then again, _he_ probably wouldn’t have thought it a good idea to drag you to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding. 

The boy, however, seemed not to be thinking of quidditch at all. He brightened upon confirmation of his suspicions, then headed off in an entirely different direction. “Auntie wanted to see you when you got here. Follow me!” 

“If that is what Herm-Own-Ninny wishes,” Viktor said as he made to do so. His grip on your hand did not allow you to slip away unseen into the pavilion. “There is no need to be nervous,” he added quietly, the pair of you trailing after the child through the home’s cramped kitchen. 

“Me? Why should I be nervous?” All you were doing was meeting your husband’s first love, the perfect, demure, brilliant woman who corresponded with him regularly to that very day. “I only worry about what the tabloids back home will say.” 

The dark eyes he turned upon you sparkled with amusement. “Do you care what they say about you all of a sudden?” 

“Of course not!” 

“Neither do I. Don’t worry. You will like Herm-Own-Ninny very much.” 

At that very moment, your youthful chaperone stopped at a door on the third floor landing. He rapped on it before saying loudly, “Auntie! Viktor Krum is here to see you!” 

Several seconds later, the door opened. A very pretty woman with bright red hair appeared there to ruffle the top of the boy’s head. “Thanks, Teddy,” she said. “Now get back to your post before Perce finds out you left it.” 

“Okay!” Teddy sang, then pushed past you to race back the way had come from. 

“Come on in,” said the woman, stepping aside to let you through. Inside the room were three other women: one blonde reading a magazine in the corner by the window, a brunette sitting at a large oval mirror, and the last another blonde working on the second’s hair. Only the last did you recognize. Fleur Weasley, her husband, and her daughter had all come to your own wedding a year ago. The redhead looked enough like Bill that she must have been a relative. Beyond those two, though, you were lost in a sea of strangers. 

When the door closed behind you, the woman at the mirror gasped, stood, and walked over to your husband to embrace him. 

“Viktor. I’m so glad you were able to make it.” 

“Hermione! You will ruin your makeup,” Fleur scolded. Hermione smiled sheepishly and stepped away. 

“Not that Ron will notice,” said the redhead. “He’ll be too busy trying not to trip on his own two feet. He, Harry, and Neville got into the Fire Whiskey last night, so Ron’s going to be even clumsier than usual.” 

“You look wonderful,” Viktor told the bride, and indeed she did. Though this Hermione did not radiate beauty like Fleur did, she had a quiet grace that you knew instantly Viktor liked. Her simple but flattering wedding robes only added to the effect. 

“It’s been too long,” Hermione said. “I’m ever so sorry I didn’t make it your wedding. It was such a busy time at the Ministry.” 

“I understand. Let me introduce you to my wife now: [F Name] Krum.” 

“Hello,” you said uncomfortably. Your Bulgarian accent was much thicker than Viktor’s, as you’d had fewer opportunities to practice English than he had. It made you feel dumber than usual hearing it around that lot. 

Hermione offered you her hand without remark. “Hermione Granger, soon to be Granger-Weasley,” she said, and the pair of you shook. “I hope you don’t dislike me too much for inviting you. I wanted to invite Viktor, you see, and Ron will feel so much better knowing you came along, too. Besides, I’ve wanted to meet you for ages! Viktor talks about you all the time in his letters.” 

“He does?” 

Viktor chose that time to turn his attention to the redhead. “So, Ginny, I hear that you and I will be having a rematch soon?” 

“He does,” Hermione said before she leaned in closer to add, “and I can tell he wasn’t lying. You seem _exactly_ the kind of woman he’d fall head over heels for.” 

You felt blood rush to your face. That Viktor had been so kind about you in his letters surprised you. He wasn’t really keen on expression his inner feelings to anyone but his closest friends. “He speaks quite highly of you as well.” 

“He is a good sort of man, isn’t he? But enough about him. I’m sure you’ll be hearing about Viktor all night long. He tells me you work at the Bulgarian wizarding paper?” 

“I do.” 

“Do you keep a portfolio? Would you mind sending me some of your articles?” 

“I could, but…why would you want them?” 

“I think reading the news from a Bulgarian point of view would be _fascinating_ ,” she answered, “and I’m told you’re a wonderful writer.” 

You rolled your eyes, and at last offered Hermione a smile of your own. “What does _he_ know? He only cares about quidditch.” 

“Men.” Hermione laughed. 

To your great surprise, you spent a very pleasant ten minutes chatting with Hermione, Ginny, Fleur, and the last woman (who turned out to be an oddity by the name of Luna Lovegood). Time seemed to fly by until Viktor took you toward the door so that you could find your seats. 

“Goodbye, Herm-Own-Ninny. We will see you at the service,” he said. 

A chorus of goodbyes followed you down the stairs. Before you could step outside, however, Viktor pulled you aside. 

“What?” you asked him. 

“Do you forgive her now?” 

“Forgive who?” 

“Herm-Own-Ninny. For dating me so long ago.” 

You frowned. “It was never a matter of _forgiving_ her. She’s just a little hard to live up to. But you were right. She is very nice.” 

“She liked you, too. I could tell.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, then intertwined his fingers with yours as you left the house together. “Do you think there will still be seats in the back?” 

With Teddy’s help, you found a couple. It wasn’t long after you got settled that the music started and Hermione appeared. For the first time, you were able to see her with clear eyes. She _was_ beautiful, and blissfully happy with her own love. Hermione Granger-Weasley was no longer your rival. One day, she might even become your friend.


	10. Pain [Tom Riddle]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people over on Quotev asked me to write a continuation of "Longing." I'm not really sure what they expected.

It had been a long time—perhaps not long enough a time—since last you had set foot inside the Hog’s Head. In many ways, the old building remained the same: same cobwebbed lamps, same peeling walls, same more-dust-than-wood floor. The only thing different there was you. You were older then, out of school, working full time for the Ministry, and (at the moment) so full of anxiety that it felt as though a swarm of billywigs had nested in your stomach. 

Only two days prior, you had been summoned to this place. Your instructions were quite clear. You were to get a room for the evening so that you and a certain someone could have a private chat. Having not heard from the summoner for many years, you had eagerly made the reservations. Now that you were there for the meeting, however, you wondered if you hadn’t simply been fooled. 

The crowd of dark-cloaked individuals sitting in the back of the bar did not assuage your fears. You recognized only two of them, and they were the Lestranges. The man had never shown you anything but disdain, and his wife…well, _she_ kept throwing you looks fit to kill, and you could have _sworn_ that, out of the corner of your eye, you’d seen her flick her wand in your direction several times. Why they kept looking at you, you had no idea, unless they were the ones that thought tricking you into a secret meeting had been a clever trap. The Lestranges _had_ been written up by the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office recently, but why would they think _you_ could get them out of it? 

“Hello, [Name].” 

You turned on your stool at the sound of the voice. There stood, handsome as always, a man you had not seen since shortly after you’d left Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. “Tom!” you said, and instantly rose to hug him. Tom Riddle did not hug you back, but stood stiffly in your embrace until you saw fit to release him. 

“Do you have the room?” he asked when you were done. Still cheerful—Tom had never been one for public displays of affection, or any display of affection at all—you headed right for the creaky stairs. 

“I do. Why are you all wet?” you asked as the two of you climbed up to the waiting room. Indeed, Tom's dark hair was covered in snow, and the front of your robes had gone damp during your hug. He took out his wand at once to begin blowing hot air at his head. 

“I came from the Castle,” he explained. 

“Hogwarts? What were you doing at Hogwarts?” 

“Asking for a job,” Tom replied, waving his free hand impatiently while you unlocked the door with your own wand. “Not that it _matters_. That old fool wouldn’t give it to me.” 

“What? Why wouldn’t Professor Dumbledore let you teach there?” 

“You know he never liked me. What are you staring at?” he demanded, for as he came into the room you had let out a loud gasp. There in the better light, you realized that Tom did _not_ look quite as handsome as always. His face looked as pale and waxy as a vampire’s, and the whites of his eyes were shot through with red veins. 

“What _happened_? Did Professor Dumbledore _curse_ you?” 

“Of course not.” Tom dumped his cloak unceremoniously onto the bed. 

“Then what—” 

“Forget about him. He’ll meet his own end soon enough. _You_.” You started at his tone of voice; although Tom had never been _gentle_ in the years you had dated during school, he’d always seemed more bored with you than angry. “I thought we discussed you using that filthy name to refer to me. I told you what I prefer to be called.” 

For a moment, you were confused. Then it clicked. “You mean Voldemort?” That had been in one of his last letters to you before he quit Borgin and Burke’s to go exploring other countries. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I do not wish to be known by a name so alike to a Mudblood’s. If you knew me…” 

“I thought I did, To—Voldemort,” you hastily corrected yourself. Again, that strange flicker of anger came across his face. You had seen it often enough by then to know that it wasn’t a trick of the light, but still you did not know the meaning of it. When you had asked him during your sixth year, Tom had claimed he didn’t know what you were talking about. 

“Maybe once. But those who know my real name—know it and use it—they know me better still.” 

He seemed then to be talking more to himself than to you. His eyes remained fixed on his long, elegant fingers. For several minutes, he stood in silence as the snow built up against the window outside. Then you could take it no longer. 

“They?" you asked. "Who is they?” 

“Surely you saw them,” Tom said, looking at you at last. You wondered what you must have looked like to him, so much older than you had been the last time he'd seen you, older and softer and slower. A surprisingly ugly smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “My followers. Those downstairs that wait to greet me.” 

“That big crowd?” You tried to hide a pang at the thought that you were not the only one that Tom had called there that night. All over again, you felt like a child longing for the attention of someone as beautiful and intelligent as he had been. But he was right. You no longer knew him. “The Lestranges, right?” 

“Among others. They await my orders. Tonight, it begins.” 

“What begins? Tom,” you slipped again in your nerves, “why did you call me here?” 

"Because I need you, [Name]. I’ve always needed you.” 

Holding your elbows in your hands, you turned toward the black glass of the window. “It hasn’t felt much like that since you left.” 

You felt him behind you for some time before he wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin on your shoulder. “I’ve been away learning.” His breath tickled your ear. “Learning so much. Dumbledore will be sorry he did not take advantage of my skills. You, though…You I called here for a special purpose.” 

Already you felt the desire to melt against him, but you knew Tom wouldn’t like that. Always it was his decision where your bodies went and when. It was enough to be close to him, to have soft words whispered to you in the night. Most days it was enough, at any rate. That night had you so rattled that you broke his grip to look at him. “You mean like you called all your other friends to meet you downstairs?” 

“Not quite like that. I assure you, you will be given an honor far greater than any of them. But first, I need to show you something.” 

The eagerness in his voice made him sound almost like a boy again, albeit a boy with a distinct hiss to his words. Still, it was Tom, and you had loved Tom for as long as you could remember. If he said he would honor you, then he would. After you nodded your consent, he turned back to his robe and pulled a box out of the pocket. 

“What is it?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you. He beckoned you closer. Inside the box sat a huge golden locket emblazoned with a great green “S.” “It’s beautiful!” 

“It was Slytherin’s. My forefather’s.” 

“How did you—” 

“I stole it.” He clicked the box shut. “While I was working for Borgin and Burke’s. You wouldn’t have seen the report of it missing. She kept it secret. You might remember the name of its owner, though, a certain Hepzibah Smith?” 

“The old woman whose house-elf killed her! We represented the elf in court. How could you have got into her things?” 

“I have my ways. Before I forget, you did as I asked and didn’t tell anyone I was coming to town, correct? You didn’t, say, mention it to that Mary of yours?” 

“No. I didn’t.” 

His bloodshot eyes seemed to grow enormous in front of you. Tom smiled another cruel smile, withdrawing his wand from the same place he’d pulled the locket from. “You’re lying. It works better that way. Her memory can be modified, just like the elf’s.” 

You opened your mouth to form another question, but he cut across you before you could begin: 

“An honor, [Name], remember? The highest honor of all. In a way, you will be a part of me forever.” 

The last thing you saw was a flash of green light coming from the wand of the only man you had ever loved. Tom had never felt the same. He had not lied to you about the honor, however, for it was your death that kept the tiny heart inside that locket beating for many years to come. Your name would not go down in the wizarding history books, but what Tom created from you one day would.


	11. Fall [Hermione Granger]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me to write one of these for Hermione. The rules of the challenge specify "no slash," but I decided...I don't really care.

Hermione Granger almost never felt foolish. Embarrassed, yes. Angry? Absolutely. Foolishness, however, was an emotion that hardly ever plagued her. She knew that she was smart, and that she had good instincts. Why, then, did she feel so _stupid_ abut walking into the Three Broomsticks on her own that November afternoon? 

“Hermione!” 

Her name came to her across the crowded pub as soon as she stepped through the door. A flash of movement from the back of the room caught her eye: you, waving above the heads of the other Hogwarts students crammed between your table and the entrance. For some reason, her feelings of stupidity increased as she picked her way toward your table. 

“You made it,” you said as you shifted your bags off the chair beside you so that Hermione could take a seat, “ _and_ you didn’t bring Ron or Harry.” 

“They have detention with Snape. I don’t know _when_ they’ll learn they can’t just attack Malfoy outside of the dungeon, even if he _did_ insult their families.” 

You made a face of sympathy, though whether it was for her or her friends, Hermione didn’t know. There were a lot of things about you that she didn’t know—such as just _why_ you had insisted on being given one of her elf hats when you’d caught her knitting in the library last month. Even stranger to her was that you were _wearing_ that hat just then, out in public. The table of Ravenclaws behind you seemed to think that just as odd as she did. 

“I should go get a drink,” she said, and she started to rise. You leapt to your feet before she could get to hers. 

“I’ll get it!” 

“[Name], you don’t have to do that.” 

You waved her down. “I told you today was my treat, didn’t I? Be right back.” 

Indeed you were only minutes later, despite all the other students still coming in to get out of the cold. “Thank you,” Hermione said. She took the warm mug of Butter Beer that you handed her as you sat back down. 

“Nothing but the best for the girl who got me through Arthimancy this term.” 

Hermione felt her face warm slightly. Must have been its proximity to her drink. She pushed the glass a little farther away from her when she set it down. “I didn’t do _that_ much.” 

“Are you kidding? If you weren’t tutoring me, Professor Vector would have flunked me ages ago!” 

“So you’re doing better now?” 

As if on cue, you whipped a piece of parchment out of your bag and handed it to her. “My first ‘A!’" you said. "If this keeps up, I might really get the O.W.L.” 

She smiled, passing the paper back. “Looks like you won’t need _me_ anymore after the holidays.” 

“What?” Hermione was surprised to see your face go ashen. “You can’t abandon me now! You know I haven’t got a head for numbers.” 

“Why don’t you simply drop the course if it’s too difficult?" 

“And do what instead, Miss I-Took-Them-All? I’m only taking this and Muggle Studies as my extras. Besides, I _need_ Arthimancy for my career path.” 

That was a feeling Hermione knew all too well herself. “I suppose, if you really think you’ll still need the help…” She didn’t quite understand why you _would_. You took excellent notes. It was only the actual application of the study that got you so confused. 

You grinned at her acquiescence. “Thank you. Wow, smart, kind, _and_ pretty. You really are the complete package.” 

“W-What?” Unfortunately, she had selected that moment to drink more Butter Beer, and your cheerfully blasé statement caused her to inhale much of the liquid instead of swallowing it. That time, the burning in her throat was _certainly_ caused by her beverage. Coughing, she managed to splutter an undignified, “Me? Pretty? What are you talking about?” 

“That you’re pretty,” you said. “I’ve said so ever since we met. Doesn’t Ron ever tell you that you’re pretty?” 

“Why would _Ron_ tell me I’m pretty?” Hermione demanded. 

“I dunno.” A frown pressed wrinkles into your forehead. “I kinda thought the two of you might be seeing each other.” 

“Me and _Ron_?” Hermione accepted the napkins you passed her and began to sop up her mess. “Ron and I have never gone out.” 

“You and Harry, then. _He_ tells you you’re pretty.” 

Suddenly, something in Hermione’s head clicked. Her feelings of dullness and shame vanished. She felt her normal bright self, and so was able to look you straight in the eye as she said, “Neither of them tell me that I’m pretty because we’re friends, just friends. What’s going on here, [Name]?” 

“Nothing is going on." 

“Really. Inviting me here?” 

“We don’t get to spend much time together outside of the library.” 

“Buying me a drink?” 

“To say thank you for getting me that ‘A.’” 

“ _Pretending_ to be awful at Arithmancy?” 

“That part's genuine, actually.” 

“You’re up to something,” she said firmly, “and if you want our arrangement to continue, I need you to tell me what that is.” 

In the face of her stern tone and crossed arms, all of your natural charisma and bravado evaporated. Staring down into the depths of your own empty Butter Beer mug, a dark color unspooled in your cheeks. Hermione knew before you spoke that her revelation earlier had been the correct one, before you took a deep breath, before you even worked up the nerve to look at her. 

“I like you, Hermione,” you said. “As more than a friend. You’re the smartest, bravest, most wonderful person I’ve ever met, and…” 

“And?” she prompted you. 

You wiggled your fingers together, took a second steadying breath, and answered, “and I’d like to know—if you aren’t already interested in someone else, because maybe you aren’t interested in p-people like me—if you’d like to g-go out with me sometime?” 

Hermione blinked. She had seen it coming (even if not as quickly as she’d have liked), but she didn’t know what to say. Of course she _liked_ you. You were intelligent, friendly, and—as an bonus—not _nearly_ as interested in Quidditch as everyone else she spoke to on a daily basis. And, after all, _she_ had been the one to sit much closer to you during last week’s tutoring session. 

But what would her parents say if she told them that she’d started seeing another girl? She could tell them that its acceptance was another quirk of the wizarding world. Then she would have to worry about getting caught in a lie, though, not to mention that her parents didn’t live in the wizarding world and would still have to worry about what Hermione would have to deal with outside of it. 

Well, she decided, when higher color still began to enter your cheeks with the silence between you stretching on, she didn’t have to tell her parents right away. They knew she was old enough to choose her own dates, and they knew that she was smart and had good instincts. 

“Would this be our first date, then?” she asked. 

A wide, relieved grin broke out on your face. “Would you like it to be?” 

"I would." She drained the last of her Butter Beer and smiled right back. 

There would be time to worry about the rest of her friends later. Ron and Harry, they’d accept her either way. If they didn’t get another detention just in time for the _next_ Hogsmeade weekend, maybe she would let them tag along with the two of you to tease her. Then again, with how much she enjoyed pressing her feet against yours underneath the table…maybe not.


	12. Steps [Severus Snape]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got asked to write a second part to "Regret." Since _that_ was stretching its premise quite a bit, the same applies here.

“Why were Narcissa and Bellatrix here today?” 

The sitting room had grown dark in the hours since they left, but you knew the remaining black shape in the center was your “beloved” husband. He did not allow Pettigrew out of his chambers without permission, after all, and who else would be lurking about so long after sunset? Leaning against the doorway that led to the kitchen, you saw Snape shift on the couch. His beady eyes flashed in the dim light that came from the candle in your hand. Had he been sleeping all that time? No, his voice was not thick with dreams when he answered: 

“I fail to see how their business is any of yours.” 

“I am the woman of this house. Business that goes down inside it _is_ my business,” you said as you strode into the room. 

His sneer was a predictable as the phases of the moon. After a year of seeing that expression so often, it still annoyed you, but no longer drew you into a blind rage. Very little made you _that_ upset anymore. The fire of your anger had blown into cold ashes. Though the Death Eaters had seen many victories of late, time had not been so kind to you. 

“And what a woman you are,” said Snape. “A real woman of the house would have been here to greet them herself. Narcissa would have, had the roles been reversed.” 

Your cheeks went dark. Narcissa Malfoy was not a Death Eater. She had a life so different from yours that imagining living it was impossible. Snape meant to rile you up, that was all, and you would not give him the satisfaction. It was one of the few pleasures left to you in life to deprive him of his. 

“ _I_ was on patrol,” you returned. “While _you_ were playing happy hostess, _I_ nearly got caught by Shackelbolt. Not that you’ll care, I expect.” 

“You are correct in assuming I do not.” 

He kept his gaze carefully away from your face. You had no delusions that seeing the painful effects of your duel with the auror bothered him. It was only that if he could pretend you were not in the room with him, he would. Too bad for him that you had no intention of playing along with him that evening. 

“What did Bellatrix and Narcissa want?” you asked again, thrusting the candle into his greasy face. If he burst into flames right then and there, burned into a soot stain on his ugly furniture, you wouldn’t have minded. Before he could, Snape killed the flame with a lazy flick of his wand, and plunged you both into further darkness. 

“How do you know that they were here at all?” 

“Pettigrew told me.” 

“Ah. Keeping track of the Dark Lord’s nosy castoffs is much more _difficult_ when I have so many living in my home.” 

“Dammit, Snape, if you don’t tell me, I’ll—” 

“Kill me?” He raised a single eyebrow, then stood. “I don’t think so. A spy is still needed at Hogwarts, and who would replace me? You? You wouldn’t last a _day_ around the likes of Dumbledore. Not when you can’t even win a duel against _one_ Auror.” 

“Kingsley Shacklebolt is not _just_ an Auror,” you snapped as Snape walked toward the kitchen. “I gave as good as I got. You’re not really risking your neck when the old fool trusts you, are you?” 

Snape stopped with his back still toward you. Heart hammering in your throat, you wrapped your free hand around the wand in your pocket. There would be no repeat of your wedding night if you could help it, even though you’d been spoiling for a rematch ever since. You would teach your husband—whose loyalties no one could ever truly be sure of—to call you a castoff and a lover of blood traitors if he would just give you half the chance. 

When he turned his head to look at you, however, it was not to cast a spell, but to answer your question. “The information won’t help you anyway. Bellatrix _was_ here, yes, but only incidentally. It was Narcissa that begged for my help, and that she will receive.” 

Your eyes narrowed despite the disappointment you felt over having nothing to report on Bellatrix. “What kind of help?” 

Again came his cold smile. “I am touched,” he pressed a hand to his heart, “that you care, but it is a trivial matter. When Draco fails, as you know that he will, _I_ will kill Albus Dumbledore.” 

“ _What_?” 

Over the months since you had married him, you had endured much from and because of Severus Snape. Your fellow Death Eaters—Bellatrix especially—made no secret of their disdain for you and your husband. He might have left you alone for most of the year to teach at Hogwarts, but still you saw him at meetings where he showed you no more respect than the rest. From your lofty position of trusted servant, you had fallen to the lowest of Death Eaters. Even Peter Pettigrew claimed more honor than you. And for what? A man determined to _mock_ you at every opportunity. 

“You think I lie?” he asked softly. 

“You will not bite a hand that feeds you. Why do you wish to protect Bellatrix so?” 

“Bellatrix,” he said, “can protect herself. You, on the other hand…” 

“So can I!” 

“Hm. Judging by the sores Shackelbolt left you with, I don’t believe you. When the time comes—and it _will_ come—I suggest you run. The Order will come here first, and so will he.” 

With that, Snape took his leave. You stood in the black study with your heart racing. The danger was obvious. If Draco was to kill Dumbledore and not Snape, the Dark Lord would take no pleasure in his plans being thwarted. Your husband was among his most trusted Death Eaters, yes, but you were no longer. If the Dark Lord believed _you_ to be involved, you would pay with more than just your life. The Order would not be any more merciful. And yet… 

And yet no one could beat Albus Dumbledore in a duel. Not you, not Lord Voldemort, not Harry Potter, and certainly not Severus Snape. _This_ was a step in the right direction. You had been warned, and so could plan ahead. All you had to do was bide your time, and maybe— _maybe_ —you could put an end to this miserable chapter in your life. If not? Oh, well. It was not much of life anymore anyway.


	13. Silence [Ron Weasley]

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place proved to be just as dark and musty as you had expected. The “Noble and Most Ancient” House of Black had died out ages ago—save for one member, and _he_ hadn’t been fit to oversee the once grand home’s upkeep. Neither, apparently, had his house-elf. Though your arrival had been a busy flurry of goodbyes and lists of rules and crazed screaming, now you were able to observe without interruption the filth your parents had left you in. 

Cobwebs dangled thick and dusty from a magnificent chandelier above your head. The horribly loud portrait that had greeted you now sat quietly behind limp, moth-eaten curtains. So disgusted were you by the moldering carpet beneath your feet that you had not, as the plump redhead in charge suggested, gone upstairs to drop your trunk off and clean up before dinner. Of course the elf—they _did_ have an elf, didn’t they?—should have been the one to carry your things to your bedroom, but you supposed you’d have to brave seeing the place for yourself eventually. As awful as the Order of the Phoenix’s headquarters was, it was also your home until school started up again in September. 

A door slamming somewhere high above your head interrupted your bitter musings. Footsteps followed that noise, and then a voice: 

“Hermione?” A flash of red appeared behind the banister. Before you could reply in the absolute negative, the owner of that red hair appeared in front of you. You recognized him at once, of course. How could you not, after sharing both Potions and Care of Magical Creatures with him for several years? Ron Weasley frowned at you as he recognized you in turn. “You’re not Hermione.” 

“Very good, Weasel,” you sneered. “Glad to see those eyes of yours are still working.” 

His ears went a dark color that didn’t bring your usual sense of satisfaction over insulting a Gryffindor along with it. “[Last Name]. What are _you_ doing here?” 

“Oh, since I’m not your muggleborn girlfriend, you can’t be half-arsed to give me a proper hello?” 

“Just answer the question.” 

“And deprive you of the pleasure of thinking ill of me?” 

“Mum!” Ron bellowed. 

“MUDBLOOD FILTH! SCUM! DESECRATORS OF MY ANCESTRAL HOME!” 

With a roll of your eyes, you forced the curtains over the picture of Mrs. Black closed. Mrs. Weasley arrived not long after, cleaning her hands on her apron and looking frustrated. 

“Ron, what _are_ you shouting about? How many _times_ do I have to remind you not to upset that horrid painting?” she asked. 

“Mum, where’s Hermione?” 

“Hermione isn’t supposed to get here until _tomorrow_ , dear.” 

“Fine, but what’s _she_ doing here?” he asked as he pointed over to where you remained standing exactly where his mother had left you ten minutes ago. She blinked. 

“[Name]? What are you still doing downstairs?” 

“Talking to your son,” you replied. ‘We were having such a _lovely_ conversation that I couldn’t bring myself to leave.” 

“That’s good to hear.” Clearly, she didn’t see the sour look you shot each other while she was gazing back toward the kitchen. “Ron, why don’t you show [Name] to the room she’ll be sharing with Ginny and Hermione?” 

Yours and Ron’s jaws dropped, though over entirely different issues, you presumed. An entire summer with the school know-it-all and the Weasley’s brat? What had you done to deserve such treatment? Ron recovered first and said: 

“She’s a _Slytherin_!” 

Her distracted manner dropped at once, and she gave her son a look that told you that whatever else Mrs. Weasley might have been, she was _not_ a woman to cross. “Ronald Weasley, where are your manners? This girl is just as much of a guest as Hermione will be, and as long as she is under this roof, I expect you treat her as one. Do you understand?” 

“Guest my arse,” Ron muttered. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing, Mum. Let’s get this over with.” 

Whatever Mrs. Weasley was so preoccupied over, it must have returned in full force for her to miss that comment. Ron pointedly ignored your trunk and started up the rickety old stairs. Scowling, you heaved the heavy object behind you as you followed. If you’d known you were to be responsible for carrying your own luggage everywhere for two months, you might not have packed so much. 

“Dinner will in thirty minutes, [Name],” Mrs. Weasley called after you’d reached the top of the first flight. “There’s a bathroom on the fourth floor if you’d like to clean up first.” 

“Thank you,” you said, rather than remind her she’d already given you all that information. She nodded, eyes still elsewhere, and disappeared into the downstairs kitchen once more. 

Unfortunately, her doing so left you alone with Ron. His back remained resolutely toward you. From there you could see that his neck had turned the same color as his hair. He _really_ didn’t want you around, did he? Not that you could blame him. Up until very recently, you wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to him either. You had just decided to allow him to sulk in silence when something interrupted—that something being your trunk catching on a stair and flying open due to how much you’d crammed inside it. Family photographs, jewelry, dress robes, and trinkets tumbled over the floor. You swore, loudly, and the resumed shrieks of Mrs. Black blasted from downstairs. 

“What’s all this?” Ron asked, bending to pick up something that had fallen on his shoe. 

“A bra!” You snatched it away from him to stuff it back where it belonged. “Never seen one of those before? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” 

“You mean to say all that’s in here is clothes and school things?” 

“And everything from home I could carry. What _else_ would I have brought?” 

“I dunno. Dark things? Stuff to spy on us with?” 

Given his record in your classes, you already knew Ron wasn’t as dumb as he appeared to be at first glance. So why was he acting so stupid _now_? There went your plan to hold on to _some_ of the natural pure-blood pride you’d been raised on. He clearly wanted to take it from you himself by making you answer his inane questions. 

"You _really_ think I’d come to this dump just to get information on you, Weasley? Because historically I’ve been so fascinated with your each and every move.” 

“Well,” he said, “your parents _are_ dark wizards.” 

“Pure-blood,” you corrected him. “Pure-blood, _not_ dark. It’s not the same thing. And I think if my parents wanted a spy in the Order, they could do a lot better than sending in their fifteen-year-old daughter, don’t you?” 

He still didn’t look convinced. “If you’re not here as a spy, what _are_ you here for?” 

A dramatic sigh escaped your lips as you shoved a lock of hair behind your ear. “My parents are working for the Order now, so I’m ‘skiing with my cousins in France’ for the summer,” you said, complete with air quotes. 

“This isn’t France.” 

“Another,” you heaved your freshly packed trunk back up with a groan, “very astute observation.” 

“No, I mean…why are you here instead of really in France? Seems more your speed.” 

“Because I’m not of age and still have to go where my parents think it’s safest. Besides, it’s kind of interesting to be at headquarters. Almost like being at the front lines, but without all the curses getting flung at your head.” Which was why you hadn’t thrown a _huge_ tantrum upon being dumped there. Yes, it was disgusting, and yes, you had to spend your time with the muggle-borns and blood traitors your life had raised you to hate before your parents had their change of heart, but... 

…But you had to admit that life at Hogwarts had _also_ proven You-Know-Who’s philosophy wrong. The smartest student in your class came from muggles. The best quidditch player hadn’t ridden a broom before he went to school. The greatest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher you’d had had been a werewolf. Purity didn’t mean as much as people like the Malfoys wanted to believe. As a child, you couldn’t do much for the cause, but you _could_ stay out of your parents’ way. It would be worth it, in the end. Or so you hoped, though spying a nasty nest of spiders in the corner of the molding by Ron’s foot made you rethink that. 

He only stared at you after your explanation. Whatever. He didn’t have to believe you. You’d known from the moment you’d seen him at Grimmauld Place that he wouldn’t. Four years of house-based dislike couldn’t be erased just like that—or so you thought, until Ron interrupted your struggling to pull your things up another flight of stairs by pulling it up himself. 

“I’ll get it,” he said. Once you’d worked out that there really wasn’t much he could do short of tossing the heavy object onto the landing and incurring Mrs. Black’s wrath, you nodded your head in thanks. The rest of the climb was spent in silence until, several minutes later, Ron announced, “We’re here.” 

A single closed door sat on the landing. Inside was probably more dirty furniture and someone that hated you. Sensing your hesitation, Ron nudged you forward. 

“Ginny isn’t so bad,” he said. “Just be careful not to piss her off. She’s not above muggle fighting when we can’t use magic.” 

“I’ll…keep that in mind.” 

He looked about to clap you on the back, then seemed to think better of it. Leaving your trunk next to you, he walked backward down the stairs. 

“See you at dinner,” he said awkwardly. 

“You, too.” 

He nodded, then turned to leave you to consider the blemished silver doorknob leading to your summer roommate. Ginny Weasley, you mused, was not the kind of girl to give up grudges easily. If Ron was being honest with you, you were in for an unpleasant summer holiday. He hadn’t _had_ to warn you, though, and perhaps it was time to start considering making things easier on yourself. Ginny and Hermione would be much easier to handle with someone they cared about on your side. 

“Weas—Ron?” you called before he could get very far. 

“Yeah?” 

You took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for what I said before. It was a force of habit. We’re both blood traitors now, I suppose. What do you say to a truce this summer?” 

He climbed back toward you to eye your outstretched hand with suspicion. 

“You won’t call me Weasel anymore?” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

“And only for the summer?” he asked. “We can go back to hating each other at Hogwarts?” 

“Of course. I have a reputation to uphold. If we spoke at school, they’d kick me out of Slytherin right away.” 

“The Gryffindors probably wouldn’t like much either. It’s a deal.” 

You both shook hands, and you offered him a rare smile. 

“Better get in there,” you said, gesturing toward the door. “If I’m not down for dinner, I’ve been murdered.” 

“Ginny wouldn’t murder you. Only give you one hell of a black eye.” 

“Lovely. It will go so well with my complexion.” 

He chuckled as he left for his own bedroom for the second time. “See you later, [Name].” 

You watched him go, then went to meet your fate. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, that Ron Weasley. He glanced at you before you shut the door and his cheeks were a nice shade of pink. It was then that you realized with a start…if you kept thinking _pleasant_ things about him, it might be a lot harder to hate him back at school than you anticipated. Well, there was only one way to find out. Despite your trepidation, you thought the summer might turn out interesting after all.


	14. Cuts [Peter Pettigrew]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written mostly to appease my frustration at seeing so many _Harry Potter_ OC- and reader-insert stories have the new character just automatically know that Peter is evil and/or write him completely. I'd like to write something more sympathetic for him from earlier in this life, but I haven't been able to come up with a decent story yet...

Dawn broke just as Peter Pettigrew finally crept through the edge of the woods that boarded the land that surrounded his destination. He had been in rat form all night long, and it had taken him longer than he’d intended to find his way there. Bright green streaked the edge of the horizon when his small, furry body grew quickly into his typical human one. He looked wildly around to make absolutely certain no one lurked nearby to see his transformation, then scurried up the steps of the nearest house to rap on the door. 

Each second without an answer frightened him further. His heartbeat and breathing grew so rapid that he had to stare at his hands to make sure he was, indeed, still human. Would he see his fingers morph into claws without his permission? Fingers they remained, but that did little to soothe Peter. So many things might have gone wrong. So many things already _had_. Just when he made up his mind to magic the door open himself, it opened to reveal the woman he’d come for. 

“Oh, Peter.” 

You’d been crying. Your normally pretty [color] eyes were shot through with red veins; your hair was a mess and your clothes wrinkled. He felt a pang deep in his stomach that might have been guilt or jealousy. Before he could decide which, you swooped over the threshold to embrace him. Awkwardly, he patted your back while you sobbed enough to wet the front of his robes. Given that it was very early on the first of November, this did nothing to warm Peter after his long journey outside, and he was very grateful when you let him go. 

“I’m s-sorry,” you said, looking up at him through watery eyes. “It’s just—just so _horrible_. But Peter,” those same eyes went wide and worried, “what happened to you?” 

He winced as your soft fingers touched one of the cuts on his face. In his flight, he had not been terribly careful to avoid branches or the odd brush with a bowtruckle protecting its tree. 

“It’s nothing, [Name]. Really.” 

“I’ll get you fixed right up. Come in. You must be freezing.” 

You ushered him into your home without protest on Peter’s part. Once you closed the door behind you both, he could relax. Certainly it was warmer inside than out. You’d only recently inherited the home from your deceased parents—there was a lot of that going around of late—and already it looked more like you. That comforted him somewhat. He allowed you to push him into the couch and stoke the fire with your wand. 

“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” you commanded before disappearing into the hall. 

As though he had anywhere else to go. All his friends and enemies were one and the same now. Each and every one of them would be out for his blood soon, if they weren’t already. His beady eyes darted toward the window. No figures moved among the trees in the growing light. For the time being, Peter could rest. 

When you returned, it was with a bottle of potion and a soft cloth. You set both down on the cold wood floor and knelt in front of him. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice you were hurt sooner,” you said, dabbing the potion on his many cuts. He winced, but bit his tongue to hold back a hiss of pain. “I’m just so—so upset. When you didn’t send word, I thought—well, it doesn’t matter now. Were you out with the Order all night?” 

“Y-Yes. I was.” He hated to lie to you, but what choice did he have? Luckily, you were too involved in healing his wounds to look him in the eye and see the deception there. 

“Did you get any of them?” 

“Any of…w-who?” 

“Any of the Death Eaters. Any of the,” here you said an ugly word that matched the uncharacteristically ugly look on your face, “that—that…you know.” 

Again you dissolved into tears. Peter pulled you close enough to press his forehead against yours. This, unfortunately, did not have its usual calming effect. You continued to sob, even when he tried quietly saying your name. 

“It’s just—just so awful! I know You-Know-Who is gone, but Lily and James! I wouldn’t have traded them for this. They shouldn’t have had to die.” 

“It is _awful_ ”, Peter said soothingly. 

“And with his followers still out there, it isn’t safe.” 

“No, I guess it’s not.” 

“And what about p-poor _Harry_? I know he’s got Sirius, but—” 

“But he hasn’t got Sirius,” Peter interrupted. 

Pulling away, you blinked at him. He moved his hands to your shoulders. Life wasn’t fair, was it? He was supposed to have received everything he’d ever wanted the night before: power and honor and respect. He should have known that with _his_ luck things wouldn’t pan out. Now he had to leave the one thing he’d had already: you, his girlfriend of three years. If he did not leave, you would find out the truth. _Someone_ would tell you, and he’d be damned if he was going to let the Death Eaters _or_ the Order of the Phoenix take your love away from him. 

“What are you talking about, Peter?” you asked. 

He swallowed. You trusted him. It wasn’t fair. But life wasn’t fair to anyone, especially not to him. 

“Sirius did it. He killed the Potters.” 

“Your _mad_. Why would he? Sirius loved James and Lily. He would never do anything to harm them.” 

“You know he was their Secret Keeper. How else could He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named get through?” 

“Maybe the charm failed. You-Know-Who was a powerful wizard. If anyone could break a Fidelius Charm, it would be him or Dumbledore.” 

“[Name].” Peter kept his voice flat as he moved his hands to entwine his fingers with yours. “We’ve suspected for months he had a spy in the Order. Tonight we found out it was Sirius Black.” 

“No!” you gasped. 

“We should have known he’d turn out rotten. Just look at his family. His own brother was a Death Eater, too. If I’d guessed, _I_ would have offered to be the Potter’s Secret Keeper, but—he was my _friend_.” 

You leaned in to kiss him. “He had us all fooled. Don’t blame yourself.” 

“Who else _can_ I blame?” Peter murmured. “Remus has other things to worry about. And now Harry…” 

“What about Harry?” 

“Sirius will be after him now. He would have ruled alongside his master if Harry hadn’t somehow destroyed him. I owe it to Lily and James to stop Sirius before he can commit any more murders.” 

Your muffled sound of protest when he let you go and stood pleased Peter. He was more pleased still when you held him back. 

“Why you? Why not call the aurors? Or tell someone in the Order?” 

With a blank face, he turned to look at you. “This is _my_ job. I didn’t tell anyone of my suspicions, and now two of my best friends are dead and their son is in danger. I’ve _got_ to be the one to bring Sirius in. You understand that, don’t you?” 

You released him, your eyes brimming with tears—tears for Peter and not for the Potters, he noted with some satisfaction. 

“I do, but…you’ll be careful? If he was willing to kill James, he'll be willing to kill you as well.” 

“I’d give my life for this. You know I love you, [Name], don’t you?” 

“I do.” The second kiss of the morning was deeper than the first. “I love you, too. Please come home when you’re done. I’ll be waiting.” 

One of the things he loved best about you was that you believed in him. With you, he did not have to fear being compared to his grander, more talented friends. So Peter knew, when he told you, “I will,” that you believed that, too, just as you’d believed every other lie he’d spouted off that day. As he disapparated from your house, he mused that the lies were worth it. Harry Potter could take everything _else_ from Peter’s life, but he wouldn’t take the woman Peter loved.


	15. Camera [Draco Malfoy]

Second year had only just began and already it was proving to be just as tedious as the first. "Potter" this and "Potter" that. Bad enough that the Headmaster was obsessed with the Boy Who Lived, but now a _teacher_? Not to mention that Potter remained Gryffindor seeker, top of Defense Against the Dark Arts, _and_ Hogwarts’ golden boy even _after_ a serious breach of the Statue of Secrecy. It was enough to drive any Slytherin mad. In fact, it seemed to have done so to your friend, Draco Malfoy, who spoke of nothing _but_ Potter after you found a table in the library that evening. 

“Then that _mudblood_ dared to suggest Father _bought_ my place on the team. Can you believe it?” 

“Sure can’t.” 

“Like _Potter_ can really play. _He_ only got on his team because of that ugly scar.” 

“Yep.” 

“Oh, well, it wasn’t _all_ bad. Stupid Weasel cursed himself. He was still throwing up slugs over supper! If his father weren’t such a failure, they could get him a new wand and maybe he could manage some _real_ magic.” 

“A shame, really.” 

“[Name]!” 

You dropped your book in shock when Draco shouted in your ear. It knocked your ink bottle over and covered your essay in black goo. Luckily, you had only got a few lines in, or else the dirty look you shot him would have been much worse. 

“You weren’t paying attention to me,” he said, rather than apologizing. 

“Sorry, Draco,” you said. “Professor Snape might let _you_ turn in your essays late, but I’m not spending another Saturday pickling spine of lionfish because _I_ did.” 

“He assigned that days ago. You should have finished it yesterday.” 

“I couldn’t because I was with you, Crabbe, and Goyle.” You pulled another roll of parchment from your bag and scrawled your heading across it. “Can’t you complain about Potter to someone else until I’m done?” 

“Crabbe and Goyle are in detention with Sprout, and Pansy and Millicent are busy. I’m _bored_ ,” he added in a drawl. 

“I’m bored, too.” Potions was Draco’s domain, not yours. You shut the book on common effects of ground unicorn horns with a sigh. “Shall we go down to the kitchens and kick the—” 

“Harry! Harry! Over here, Harry!” 

Turning, you saw one of the teeny Gryffindor first years scurrying through the aisles of books. He stopped somewhere beyond your field of vision. Draco crept over to the end of the shelf your table sat behind, then motioned for you to follow. 

When you peeked around the corner, you saw the Creevey boy dancing around a table occupied by none other than Potter and Granger. You’d have thought they’d be preoccupied with Weasley’s mouth slugs that night, not having a cozy get together in the library, but there they were. Creevey evidently noticed nothing strange about this. 

“Hi, Harry! What are you doing here? I’m going to work on an essay for Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall is tough, isn’t she? Oh! Can I get a picture of you studying? Dad’s never seen a wizard study.” 

“Not now, Collin,” Potter sighed. 

Creevey didn’t listen. He’d already pulled out the camera from his bag and started snapping away. Potter stared pointedly at his book. Granger seemed too involved in reading to notice the ruckus at all. 

“Oh, by the way, Harry,” Creevey said, “I’ve got that picture of Ron from earlier. You know? With the slugs? Do you want one?” 

“Speaking of Ron—Harry, maybe we should go check on him,” Hermione suggested. 

“Good idea,” said Harry. 

“Do you have to go, Harry? Hermione can check on him!” Creevey bounced after them as the pair of Gryffindors gathered their things and headed for the exit. “You can stay and help me with my paper! I bet you know all about Transfiguration.” 

“Er…some other time. Goodnight.” 

Granger and Potter vanished from your sight, leaving a crestfallen Creevey in their wake. Good thing, too. If you’d had to endure one more minute of Potter worship, your head might have exploded. 

“Forget kicking house-elves,” Draco whispered. “ _I’ve_ got a better idea.” 

He strode out of your hiding place and right for where Creevey sat at Potter’s vacated study spot. Trying to hide a smirk, you followed. 

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Draco asked. 

“An ickle first year doing homework. How sweet,” you said. 

Creevey looked up as both of you sat down—you on the table, Draco in a seat. Draco propped his feet on the top without even bothering to make sure Madam Pince was not nearby to see his blatant rule breaking. 

“Hi.” Creevey thrust a tiny hand at Draco. “I’m Collin. Collin Creevey. And you are?” 

Draco eyed the hand for a moment before he lazily pushed it aside. “So, you finally got rid of old Scar Head, I see.” 

“Who? Oh, you mean Harry? No, he just left to see his sick friend.” 

“Looked more to me like he wanted to be anywhere but here,” you said. 

“Probably thought his head would get too big for him to leave if he stayed any longer.” Draco snickered. 

“I’d leave, too, if some muggle-born wanted _me_ to do his homework for him.” 

The pale pink rising on Creevey’s face showed he suspected you were teasing him—and that besmirching the great Potter’s name would not be tolerated. 

“He would have helped!” he said. “He just had to go help Ron instead.” 

“Oh, please,” said Draco. “He couldn’t _wait_ to leave. Weasley was just an excuse to get away from _you_.” 

“That’s not true!” 

“Why would Harry Perfect Potter want to help out a moron that can’t write his own Transfiguration essay?” 

“At this rate you’ll never become a _real_ wizard,” you said with a serious nod. 

“I will, too!” Creevey said, his eyes now shining with unshed tears. 

“Not when you insist on clinging to all this muggle rubbish.” 

Although Creevey tried to protest, he could do nothing to stop Draco from snatching up his camera where it sat by his bag. He tossed it to you as the boy made a lunge for it. 

“Give it back!” 

You instead clicked the button on top as you pointed the lens at Draco. “Stupid thing doesn’t even _do_ anything.” With your wand, you levitated it over Creevey’s head and back into Draco’s waiting hands. He pressed the button several times more without bothering to look through the peephole. 

“You’ll waste all the film!” Creevey wailed. 

Draco rolled his pale grey eyes. “Oh, I’m _sorry_. You need all you can for your shrine to Potter. I forgot.” 

“No!” Creevey stumbled when Draco magicked the camera over to you again, and stomped in frustration. “I’m taking all sorts of pictures for my father! He’s never seen magic.” 

“All the more reason,” you said, “to keep him from seeing it. We don’t need people like _you_ mucking things up, do w—” 

“What is going on here?” 

All three of you looked up to find Professor Snape standing by the table. Before either you or Draco could make your excuses, Creevey spoke up: 

“They took my camera, s-sir.” 

“And what,” Professor Snape asked, “is your business in bringing such a contraption into the library to begin with?” Creevey went pink and gave no answer. “Miss [L Name]. Return that at once.” 

With a frown, you dumped the camera back onto the desk. Its owner snatched it up to check for damage without so much as a thank you. 

“I think it is time you two returned to your common room. There is an essay due tomorrow, and if I am not mistaken, you, Miss [L Name], never turned your last one in. Well? Go. Now. Before I take points from you for causing such a commotion.” 

“Yes, Professor,” said Draco. He grabbed your hand to pull you back to your previous station, where you collected your things. Then you left under your Head of House’s sharp gaze. Only once you were out of earshot did Draco speak again. “That was fun for a little while. You think Crabbe and Goyle are finished with detention yet?” 

“Dunno. ‘Spose I should _try_ to finish my essay. Professor Snape could have got us in a lot more trouble.” 

“Yeah. I guess. You know, if that prat wasn’t so obsessed with _Potter_ …” 

Your eyes glazed over as Draco returned to his favorite subject. Oh, well. You’d had a spot of fun that evening. Besides, you had to wonder if, if you got Creevey alone again, he might give you a copy of that photo you’d taken of Draco. He looked quite nice in it. Not to mention, _that_ Draco probably would complain about Potter heaps less than the real one walking by your side.


	16. Memory [George Weasley]

Diagon Alley had not seen such a perfect day in nearly a year. A month after the fall of Voldemort, all the funerals for those who had died during that final battle were finished, and the trials for his followers had just began. A bright summer sun shone in a clear blue sky for the grand re-opening of the shops. Customers great and small returned in droves to enjoy laughter and color and fun. Every other business seemed to be running some sort of special sale in celebration...all except for one. 

Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes sat as dreary and dejected as it had since its owners went on the run. Gone were its flashing window displays, its cheering customers, its colorful presentations. In their places now sat cobwebs, dirt, and dust. It looked as though no one had entered the building in months, but you knew that wasn’t true. _Someone_ was inside, and it was for that someone that you had come. 

“ _Alohomora_ ,” you whispered as pointed your wand at the locked front door. A soft _snick_ told you the spell had worked. One needless look behind yourself (everyone else was having far too good a time to notice one woman breaking and entering a shutdown shop), then you stepped into the building. The door swung shut behind you, and you did not bother to lock it again. 

“George?” 

You voice fell flat on the dust-covered floor. No one acknowledged you, not even the row of magic jack-in-the-boxes that stared at you from the nearby shelf. They had not been cleaned in recent memory either. Shuddering, you followed the several trails of footprints through the dark store. 

The light only dimmed more the farther back you strode. Up led the prints into the second floor flat. You did not hesitate to climb the stairs. A single hallway lay at the top. Several doors led away from it, but you did not have to follow the path to know which door you wanted. 

“George!” you called again. You knocked on the door second to your left and still heard no response. “George, it’s me!” 

For the first time, you allowed yourself to feel a flurry of fear. Just because Voldemort was gone from the world did not mean all evil was. You’d lost your own mother to a more mundane kind of evil before you ever set foot in Hogwarts. Could something like that have befallen your boyfriend? 

You shook your head. What were you thinking of? This was George Weasley! Evil might remain, but it could not touch _him_. But if that were the case, why was he ignoring you? 

“I’m coming in, George. For the love of Merlin, you better be wearing pants.” 

Opening the door to the Weasley’s flat did not require use of magic. One turn of the knob, and you were in. 

What met you was a great wafting scent of Firewhisky. The curtains were drawn tight over the window, but you could see the shapes of several glass bottles on the floor, counters, and table. Forgetting momentarily what you were there to do, you rushed to the window, pulled up the covering, and wrenched the thing open to get a better look at the sty. 

“Bloody hell. What’s going on?” 

A shape struggled free of the blanket on top of the nearby couch. Seconds later, out popped the familiar (though disheveled) bright red hair of one George Weasley, owner and proprietor of Weasely’s Wizard Wheezes. He hissed in the full gleam of sunlight, then covered his head with a pillow. You marched over and snatched it up. 

“Blimey!” he exclaimed. 

“What are you doing?” 

George groaned. “Can’t you yell at me later? I’m a nursing a hangover, in case you couldn’t tell.” 

“I’m not surprised. It looks like you had a giant over for drinks last night.” 

“That’s because I _did_. Hagrid came over. Speaking of, what are _you_ doing here? I don’t remember extending you an invitation.” 

“I’m here looking for you,” you said, tossing his pillow into a corner and sitting on the chair a few feet away. 

“Ah, but perhaps I didn’t want to be found. Did you ever consider that?” 

“Pick a better place next time if that’s the case. Do you know how worried I’ve been? Do you know how much you’ve worried your mother?” 

“She knows where I am,” he said with a grimace. 

“No, she doesn’t. You ran off right after Fred’s funeral and no one’s seen you since. No owls. No word. No nothing.” 

A rather nasty pause followed your words. George’s eyes narrowed before he hopped off the couch and marched—or staggered, really—for the bathroom. You stayed put. The sounds of his vomiting into the toilet came through just fine from where you were. 

“Always want to get straight to the point, don’t you, [Name]?” he asked, tone horribly cheerful when he resurfaced. He dragged the stained sleeve of his robe across his chin to clean it. If he meant to disgust you in doing so, he managed. 

“You do _not_ get to guilt trip me after you’ve disappeared for a month,” you snapped. 

“I can do whatever I damn well please.” 

“Which in this case is drink yourself to an early grave and let your dream rot?” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

He turned his back resolutely toward you and picked up the nearest Firewhisky bottle. You watched him sadly as he lifted the opening to his mouth to catch the last dregs. George and you had been dating since shortly before he and his brother left Hogwarts for good, but you’d been friends long before that. That was how you knew he didn’t really mean what he was saying—which was fortunate for George, since that made you less inclined to take your wand out and hex him. 

“Is this all you’ve been doing up here?” you asked. “Drinking and sleeping?” 

“No. I’ve also considered using _Avada Kadavra_ on myself.” 

“That isn’t funny.” 

“It wasn’t a joke. Can’t you see? Fred’s gone. I’m not going to joke ever again! There’s nothing funny _left_.” 

“If you’re serious, then I’m taking you to Saint Mungo’s right now. You’ve had enough,” you added with a flick of your wand, and sent George’s near-empty bottle into the bin. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he told you. 

“You are if you’re thinking about killing yourself.” 

“What do _you_ care?” 

That stung, badly. “I’m your girlfriend, George,” you said with a touch of hurt. “Of course I don’t want you to die.” 

“Didn’t much care when Fred did, though.” 

“I think it’s awful that Fred died. I think it’s awful that anyone on our side died.” 

“Then why did you come here to interrupt my grief?” 

By then, your anger had you on your feet. Your fingers curled around your wand, prepared to fling a spell at George’s stupid head. You didn’t, though, because you could not see _his_ wand. For all you knew, he was so upset he couldn’t even _do_ magic anymore. One cleaning charm, and his flat wouldn’t be so filthy. Surely Molly had taught him the incantation for that before he moved out. 

“Ginny sent me,” you said in a tone of forced calm. “She said she tried to come see you here, and you refused to talk to her. I don’t know _why_ she thought you’d talk to me instead, but here I am.” 

“You wouldn’t be if I hadn’t been asleep when you showed up.” 

Tears stung your eyes, but you refused to cry. In the past month, you had cried more than most had a right to. You would never shed another tear again, not if you could help it. Not in front of George, not in front of Ginny, not in front of anyone. 

“Why are you being so awful?” you asked. 

“Because I lost my brother!” George shouted. He shoved several more Firewhisky bottles onto the floor where they shattered. “No one gets it! Mum and Ginny knew Fred, but not like _I_ did! He’s _dead_ , and now nothing will ever be the same!” 

“And I lost my father!” you screamed right back. 

“Did you know him half as well as I knew Fred?” 

“He was the last family I had! I still hurt!” 

“Not as badly as I do!” 

Your voices rang back at you both from the walls. Despite your best efforts, a few tears fell from your eyes, obscuring the angry face that belonged to the man you once loved. You had tried. Really. You had tried to give him space, to give him comfort, to let him grieve as much as he needed. Meanwhile, you had no one, no one at all to talk to about your _imperius_ ed father trying to kill you, or of you killing him by accident defending yourself. George hurt, but you did, too, and you were at a point where you could say that you deserved better. 

“Is that how it is?” you said hoarsely. 

George said nothing. 

With long strides, you walked back to the door. He was still staring at you wordlessly when you turned around for the last time. “I’m leaving, George. And I’m not coming back. I got a job with Mr. Ollivander, gathering wand cores for him. He doesn’t get around as well since captivity. The work requires quite a bit of traveling and I’m not sure where I’ll be going first, but I don’t suppose you’ll want to owl me. At least this way, I’ll be gone. I won’t have to watch the last person I love rot away.” 

You took care to slam the door behind you. Outside, all the warmth and cheer of the weekend continued. Without fear for George weighing you down, you could properly join in, or try to, at least. Happiness still felt far from you, and yet…you’d left your memories up in that cold, dark flat on top of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. In time, they would fade. For now, you just wanted to know that joy still existed somewhere you couldn’t quite get to yet.


	17. Thoughts [Teddy Lupin]

Most Hogsmeade weekends were cause for celebration. Seventh year students received so few breaks in their studies after all. By mid-May, they saw none at all. You, in fact, had planned to stay in the castle to cram for your Divination N.E.W.T.s, rather than waste time going into town that day. The thought that you were not in your common room with a stack of books nagged at you throughout the morning. If not for your boyfriend’s insistence on you accompanying him that Saturday, you would have been there still. 

Having got you outside for “a bit of fresh air,” however, Teddy seemed in no hurry to return to Hogwarts. He seemed in no hurry to get anywhere at all. First you trundled to the sweet shop, then the post office, then the Hogsmeade branch of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. From store to store he led you until there was nowhere else to go. And yet, as you left the Three Broomsticks after an hour of sipping gillywater, he continued up the main street. 

“Teddy?” you said. You saw his eyes flick in your direction. They were dark brown that day, and he’d turned his partially buzzed hair violet. “Teddy, where are we going?” 

“Tired of my company already, [Name]?” he asked with a grin. 

“Not your company, no. But I _should_ be studying. As should you.” 

“Exams aren’t for another three weeks! You study too much.” 

“And you don’t study enough.” You tugged on his hand, which had been interlaced with yours since you’d left Hogwarts. “Come on. Let’s go home.” 

“One more stop.” 

“You said that after the last three!” 

“Humor me. You’ve been so busy lately that I’ve hardly seen you. Pretty please?” 

How could you say no to that adorable pout? “Fine.” You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. “But this really _has_ to be our last stop. I promised Rose I’d help her study for her Herbology final, remember?” 

“Last stop.” Teddy bent to kiss your cheek. “I promise. Would I lie to you?” 

“Each and every day like clockwork.” 

He chuckled, but the sound was subdued. Now that you thought about it, Teddy had been rather subdued all day. Gazing at him intently all the while, you allowed him to pull you along, up and away from the typical hustle and bustle of the town. No further word passed between you. 

The houses and shops slowly disappeared behind you as you moved on. Fewer students called out to greet you. Soon, you and Teddy walked alone together along the winding dirt path that led out of Hogsmeade. Just as you were beginning to suspect you knew where your final destination was, Teddy drew to an abrupt stop. 

A large expanse of flat land sat before you. Gray stones and bright bunches of flowers dotted the well-kept grass. He had brought you to the memorial cemetery installed for those that fell during the Last Battle of Hogwarts. 

“What are we doing here?” you asked. 

“You’ll see.” 

His answer did little to calm you. Oblivious to your nerves—or ignoring them—Teddy pushed open the beautiful gate and stepped inside the graveyard. You followed hesitantly. Many Hogwarts students made it a point to visit this place, especially around that time of year. Being the daughter of a Death Eater, you’d never set foot in it. You were not welcome there. 

“Teddy,” you whispered, “can we _please_ leave? I don’t want to get stuck in the hospital wing this week.” 

“No one is going to curse you.” 

Clearly, _he_ couldn’t see the looks those gathered kept throwing you. The iron grip he had on your hand forced you to keep going even though _you_ could. Cringing, you scurried along next to him until, quite suddenly, he let you go. 

“Huh?” 

Teddy knelt in front of two graves, each bursting with flowers. He affectionately caressed each headstone before looking at you with a small smile. 

“I wanted you to meet my parents.” 

“Your—!” 

Yes, you saw that now. _Nymphadora “Tonks” Lupin_ read one marker, the other _Remus John Lupin._ Your hands lifted to cover your mouth as tears filled your eyes. 

“There wasn’t much time left, you know,” he explained, “what with us leaving school soon.” 

You nodded, unable to speak. 

“I’ve been meaning to introduce you for ages, but it took me awhile to work up the nerve. I wanted to bring Victoire, but—well. You know how _that_ went.” 

“Yes.” After all, you and Victoire Weasley had been best friends up until her very messy breakup with Teddy. That you were dating him now hardly helped matters. 

As though he read your mind, Teddy grinned. “Don’t worry. She won’t come. I paid James off to keep her busy for us.” 

“Oh. Good.” 

Why were you so damn nervous? Teddy’s parents couldn’t do anything to you! Neither could Victoire, whether she made an appearance or not. All the same, you hung back to watch in silence. Then he motioned for you to quit dawdling. 

“Come on. Dad made it a point not to bite, even in life,” he said. 

Feeling awkward, you moved forward until Teddy was able to grasp your hand once more. 

“Mum. Dad.” An uncomfortable laugh told you he felt just as anxious as you did. “This is my girlfriend, [Name]. You probably didn’t like her dad much, but…she’s great. I never got to know you myself, but I want you to know her. Harry says you can see what’s going on down here, so you probably already know that I love her. She’s going to stay with me for a long time, at least as long as she’s willing to put up with me.” 

Tears filled your eyes. You dried them with your sleeve, but not quickly enough for them to escape Teddy’s notice. He let out a whoop of laughter. 

“You actually crying, [Name]?” 

“Shut up!” you snapped. “You’re not typically so serious.” 

He winked. “Enjoy it while you can, babe.” 

After that, he went quiet. It took him elbowing you in the ribs to make you understand he expected _you_ to say something as well. What on earth were you supposed to say? That you were sorry your father had made their short lives so miserable? Wouldn’t that kind of ruin the mood? You cleared your throat to buy some time and still drew a blank. 

“Er, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lupin,” you began. “Um. I know my family has done some terrible things to yours, but…I love Teddy. More than anything. I’d never hurt him, and,” you shot him a smirk, “I intend to stick around until he gets tired of me.” 

“Thank you,” Teddy whispered, squeezing your hand. 

There wasn’t much left to do once the confessions were done. He cast a few cleaning spells, made sure the enchantments on the flowers remained in place, and spoke to his father about the map his godfather had passed down to him, and that Teddy in turn would pass down to James. Then Teddy grabbed your hand again and headed for the exit, all at once his usual cheerful self. 

“All right, _now_ we can get back to your studies and my interruptions,” he said as the cemetery fell behind you. 

“Do we have to involve your interruptions? Can’t I have _one_ study session without them?” 

“Absolutely not. As your boyfriend, it is my duty to ensure you have plenty of distractions to keep you sane.” 

“At least promise me you won’t disrupt my studies with Rose.” 

“Nothing doing.” 

“Your funeral,” you muttered. 

Grumble though you might have, you’d meant what you’d said to Teddy’s parents. As long as he’d have you, by his side you’d remain, distractions and all. You guessed his mum and dad wouldn’t have had it any other way.


	18. Goodbye [Harry Potter]

The further Harry marched into the Forbidden Forest, the more the noise of grieving from the Castle faded away. Darkness pressed against him at all sides; more than ever, it felt as though the trees themselves possessed malevolence in their boughs. He, however, was not afraid of them, not when he knew what lay waiting for him beyond their black and gnarled trunks. His way forward had never been more clear, and though he did not _want_ to die, he knew that his doing so would prevent many more from dying. 

As he came into a small clearing, he stopped walking. The sky above the leaves had an orange-ish cast to it. Hogwarts was on fire. Closing his eyes to resist the urge to run back, Harry turned away and pulled something from his pocket. That something was the Resurrection Stone, the tool of legend he’d only recently realized he owned. 

Hermione’s recounting of the _The Three Brothers_ floated through his mind. The Stone was not to be used to force the dead back to life. He had no intention of doing so. All he wanted was company while he walked to his death, but first there was one person he needed to see. Closing his eyes, he turned the stone three times in hand. 

When he opened his eyes, he no longer stood alone in the glade. A familiar figure lingered nearby. She looked neither ghostly nor solid, but rather somewhere in between. On her face was an expression of anxious curiosity. 

“[Name],” Harry breathed. 

Smiling now, you closed the gap between you and him. You did not touch him, but Harry felt a warmth and peace radiating from your image. He knew that it was you—real or not—because of it. Not since your passing had he felt that same peace. 

“Hello, Harry,” you said. “It’s been awhile.” 

Your aura proved not enough to prevent tears from rushing to his eyes. Embarrassed, he took off his glasses and wiped the wetness away. This reunion was supposed to make him feel better, but apparently the wounds of losing you two years before remained fresh. 

“S-Sorry,” he said as he placed his glasses on his nose. 

“That’s all right. Are you okay?” 

“Not exactly.” 

You blinked, then cocked your head to one side in a characteristic gesture. “I’ve been watching, you know. You’ve been so brave.” 

“I don’t feel so brave right now.” 

“But you’re going anyway.” 

“I _have_ to.” Harry shook his head, trying to ignore the distant sounds of wailing coming from the direction of Hogwarts. How many people had died that night alone? How many did Harry know personally? If he changed his mind and returned now, who was to say what he would find there? “Too many people have already died for me. My parents. Cedric. Sirius. You.” 

“Harry.” You drifted closer. He found himself unable to look at you. “Harry, I didn’t die for you.” 

“If I hadn’t dragged you to the Ministry—” 

“You didn’t ‘drag’ me anywhere.” 

“I should have told you to stay.” 

“Never was much good at doing what I was told. I made my choice. I _wanted_ to help you save Sirius. He’s important to you.” 

“You’re important to me, too,” Harry said around his constricted throat. 

“What happened wasn’t your fault. My parents weren’t making things easy for You-Know-Who. I’d have attracted the Death Eaters’ attention eventually.” 

“Not so _soon_.” Though would it really have been easier to lose you in sixth year, or while he was away from school this year, or even tonight? Harry doubted it. 

You looked at him with pity welling in your beautiful [color] eyes. “Maybe not, but it was still _my_ fault I died. I was… overconfident.” 

With a great force of effort, he wrenched his gaze back to your face. “I never wanted this. I-I loved you, [Name].” 

“I love you, too.” 

A strange tingling arose on Harry’s lips as you bent to kiss him. He almost put his hands around your waist, so familiar did it feel. You even smelled the way he remembered, the way the Armontentia in Slughorn’s class smelled to him still. Then he remembered that you weren’t there. Not really. Even if he convinced himself you were not just a shadow, he couldn’t be with you the way he once had. 

As though you remember this at the same time, you stepped away, leaving not a mark in the moonlit grass. “And I know you love me enough not to want to keep me around like this,” you said. 

“No, I—I...just wanted to say goodbye.” 

“It’s not really goodbye, though, is it?” 

Harry hesitated. “No. I suppose it’s not.” 

You kissed him again, that time on the cheek. “You’re still the bravest man I know. Go on. Your family is waiting.” 

“Right.” He swallowed. All at once, he felt he could do this. “I’ll see you soon, then?” 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

With that, Harry spun the stone three times more. You vanished as quickly as you had appeared. He let the clearing stand empty for a few minutes. Soon. He’d see you again soon. And Sirius and Remus and his mum and his dad. If that wasn’t inventive enough to go through with this, what was? All he needed was to summon the others, and he would be ready to face Voldemort one last time. That was all that stood between him and the warmth of your arms.


	19. Black [Oliver Wood]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad that the previous Oliver bit in this collection was so...well, bad, that I felt obligated to write him a story where he actually shows up. Turns out, I find him one of the easiest characters to write for.

“Where is she? Let me through! I’ve got see her!” 

It didn’t take someone in Rowena Ravenclaw’s direct lineage to figure out who the loud voice out in the hall belonged to. _You_ knew, and _you_ were hardly the smartest student in your year. Also, you were stuck in a hospital bed, and therefore entirely unable to see out the door. Fred and George—the ones that had brought you there after the unfortunate incident—snickered at the exasperated look on your disfigured face. 

“You _told_ him!” you said indignantly. As though you hadn’t already had a miserable enough day. 

“Oh, sure, [Name].” George rolled his eyes. 

“We haven’t left your side for a moment, but we’re just _so_ close to Oliver that we share a psychic link and let him know where you are,” said Fred. 

“If you didn’t tell him, how does he know I’m here?” you demanded. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Could it be the massive commotion you made between classes?” 

“[Name]?” the person outside bellowed. 

“Hide me,” you begged the twins in a whisper. “Disillusion me, charm me out the window, _something_!” 

They looked all too delighted to refuse you. 

“No can do.” 

“You’ve made your bed. Now lie in it.” 

“You little—” you said, but before you could find where Madam Pomfrey had stashed your wand (“to prevent temptation for revenge”), footsteps interrupted you. Much to your horror, the _one_ person you least wanted to find out about this rushed into the room. 

“[Name]!” 

You hardly had time to take in Oliver’s pale face, mussed hair, and disheveled robes. As soon as he spotted you, he shoved Fred and George aside, then threw himself into the chair next to your bed and his face onto your stomach. 

“Oliver,” you said, exasperated. “You’re heavy.” 

“What did you do to her?” he spat as he sat up to glare at the twins. 

George was clearly affronted. “Us?” 

“ _We’re_ the ones that _saved_ her,” said Fred. 

“She did the rest all by herself.” 

“You honestly expect me to believe that?” Oliver asked. 

“Ahem.” All three boys turned to see you lying there with your arms folded over your chest. “If you’re all quite finished speaking about me as though I’m not here.” 

“I’m only trying to get them to tell me the truth!” 

You let out a short breath, closing your eyes as you did so as to not see Fred and George’s triumphant grins. “They _are_ telling you the truth.” 

“See? What did we tell you?” 

“Assuming the worst of us. You’re as bad as Percy, you are.” 

If life didn’t hate you, that would have been the end of that conversation. Oliver would leave satisfied, having seen that you were not in your final death throes, and you could spend the rest of the afternoon taking a nap. Unfortunately, life _did_ hate you. Rather than return to class where he _belonged_ , Oliver grabbed both your hands in his. You opened your eyes to see that familiar manic fire in his. 

“You don’t have to lie for them,” he said. 

“Hey!” the boys cried in unison. 

Blaming the twins would have been the easier move. Merlin knew _they_ weren’t above mischief in the halls. On the other hand, they had been your best friends for years now, and it wouldn’t do to throw them under the Knight Bus—even if in doing so, you saved face in front of your boyfriend. 

“I’m not lying, Oliver. I really did start the fight. Fred and George only finished it.” 

“And _we_ did it without making such an obvious mess,” George said proudly. 

“Not that the Slytherins _deserve_ such consideration,” Fred added. 

Oliver waved them into silence with one hand, though he kept the other around one of yours. “You mean to tell me that _you_ got into a fight between classes? _You_?” 

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” 

“But why?” 

“Does _why_ really matter?” 

“My prefect girlfriend just got into a fight with Marcus Flint and wound up having a panda head on top of her body!” Behind him, George and Fred exchange whispers as they scrawled something down in the muggle notebook they always carried with them. “So, yes. It matters.” 

“I…” A hundred different falsehoods came to you at once: You’d got tired of looking at Flint’s ugly face; you overheard him insulting a muggle-born’s blood status; you thought he might be selling contraband study materials to anxious fifth years. Anything would have been better than the truth. But when Oliver’s brow furrowed in concern and his fingers gripped yours tighter still, you knew you had to come clean. 

“He insulted your keeping skills,” you muttered, refusing to meet his eye. 

“Huh?” 

“I said,” you said more loudly, “that he insulted your keeping skills and said that when Gryffindor loses this Saturday, it will be all your fault.” 

Oliver gaped at you. Fred and George beamed. For quite some time, the hospital wing stayed so silent you could have heard a quill drop. Then: 

“You got transfigured like this over something as meaningless as quidditch?” Oliver thundered. 

There was a beat, followed by the twins doubling over with laughter. You were glad _they_ found the situation so funny. Oliver never thought quidditch was meaningless. Never! His acting so out of character was the last thing you wanted. Now your face was so hot that you probably looked like a _sunburned_ panda. 

“What do you mean, ‘meaningless’?” you snapped. “You love quidditch more than anything else in the world!” 

“Not so much I want my girlfriend getting hurt over it!” 

“I’m so sorry I defended your honor, then!” 

“I can defend my own honor!” 

“Next time, I’ll let you!” 

“You don’t even _like_ quidditch!” 

“But I do love you!” you shouted. “So I don’t want someone like Flint insulting you and the thing you love so bloody much!” 

Your glowering contest with Oliver didn’t end right after that. Slowly, though, he deflated, and Fred and George’s laughter trailed away into the occasional giggle. Thank goodness Madam Pomfrey had been busy with a trio of second years caught unawares by the venomous tentacula, or she’d have already kicked everyone out—maybe even you! Bad enough that Oliver had seen you with a panda head; the rest of the school didn’t need to as well. 

He kissed the tip of your black nose. “I love you, too.” 

“Enough to forget I did something this stupid because of a dumb game?” you asked hopefully. 

“Even if I did, these two won’t.” 

The looks on Fred and George’s faces made it obvious that by the time you got back to your common room, everyone would know what transpired that afternoon and exactly why it had. A second kiss from Oliver—this time on your awkwardly shaped mouth—was enough to distract you (mostly) from this distressing revelation. 

“This isn’t permanent, is it?” he asked. 

“Flint messed up whatever spell he was using, so no one’s quite sure when it’ll go away.” Upon seeing his horror, you hastened to add, “But Professor McGonagall promised to take a look once lessons are over for the day. I’m sure I won’t be this way for long.” 

“Thank goodness. I’d hate to spend the rest of my life kissing a bear.” 

Evidently, he didn’t mind doing so _too_ much. Not for the time being, anyway. You got some excellent snogging in that day, until the instructor in question showed up and took points from Oliver for skipping out on Transfiguration. He shot you a wink before he and the twins left for supper. As you settled back in your bed to await Professor McGonagall’s assessment, you thought that maybe life didn’t hate you so much after all. If it did, would you ever have had such an excellent boyfriend and friends?


	20. Red [Ginny Weasley]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got asked to throw in more girlxgirl stories (since originally I wasn't going to, seeing as not very many people are interested in my girlxgirl stuff), so staring with Ginny here, I throw one in in every block of ten.

Red was the color of the things you loved most in the world. Red was the color of the sunset over the Forbidden Forest. Red was the color of the quaffle streaking up the quidditch pitch. It was the color of the blood you added to certain potions, the dominant color of the Gryffindor banner, the rubies glittering in the House Cup glasses. Most importantly of all, red was the color of the hair that belonged to one Ginny Weasley, the greatest girlfriend anyone had ever had. 

Red was also the color of her brother’s face when he caught her kissing you that night in April. 

“Ginny!” 

It happened so suddenly. One second, you were cozied up with her in a chair next to the fireplace; the next, you’d been shoved away. You toppled onto the floor and looked up to find Ron holding Ginny away from you. 

“Ron!” she snapped as soon as she’d ascertained you weren’t badly hurt. He, however, didn’t spare her a glance. 

“What do you think you’re doing to my sister?” 

“Uh,” you answered. Confrontation never had been your forte—and Ron looked plenty confrontational. 

“Kissing her? Out in public? Not that that’s okay to do in private, either!” 

“Er.” 

“You stay away from her, you hear? As if it wasn’t bad enough when the _boys_ were all over her.” 

“But I—” 

“Get out of here. Now. Ow!” 

You couldn’t see what Ginny did through your tears, but soon she was by your side, gently helping you to your feet. 

“Ginny, what are you—” 

“Shut up, Ron. Haven’t you done enough for one night? [Name]?” she added kindly. “Are you all right?” 

“I’m okay,” you said shakily. The only thing Ron had really hurt were your feelings, and you weren’t about to admit that to her. She shot you a knowing look that lasted until she saw you settled in the chair once more. By then, every eye in the common room was on her, but did Ginny care? No. Turning right back to Ron, she set a scowl on her face. 

“If you ever touch her again, I’ll hex your nose off!” she shouted. 

Ron frowned, obviously confused. He recovered quickly, though, enough to shout, “All I wanted to do was rescue you!” 

“Rescue me from what?” 

“What—” He turned a darker shade of red than ever. “What it looked like you were doing.” 

“Oh? Tell me, what did it _look_ like I was doing?” 

“Getting snogged in public. By a girl!” 

Ginny let out an ugly laugh. “First of all, Ron, I hardly call a peck on the lips ‘snogging.’ Second of all, _I_ was the one doing the kissing. And _third_ , I’ll kiss whoever I damn well please, and that includes my girlfriend!” 

“Your—!” 

“Girlfriend, yes. Haven’t heard of those?” 

He could only sputter before turning to Hermione, who had been trying to work on homework through the entire row. “Did you know about this?” he demanded. 

Hermione, rather than answer, simply sighed and said, “Ginny’s in fifth year. I think she’s old enough to know who she likes.” 

“Not if it’s a girl, she doesn’t! I thought you liked Harry,” he said, returning his attention to Ginny. 

Harry, who sat next to Hermione and had been watching with great interest while Ron and Ginny fought, hastily ducked his head and pretended to be engrossed in a copy of _Historical Uses of Dragon Spleen._

“I _did_ like Harry,” Ginny said. 

“Then you _do_ like boys!” Ron said triumphantly. 

“I like girls _and_ boys, Ron.” 

“So you’re going around snogging everyone? My sister’s a—” 

“You _don’t_ want to finish that sentence,” Ginny said in a low, dangerous voice. “I don’t like Harry anymore, and now I’m with [Name]. It’s not _my_ job to explain sexualities to you. Ask Hermione if the concept is too difficult for you to understand.” 

All he could do then was gape like a fish. In the wake of his silence, Ginny snatched up your hand, pulled you from the chair, and marched in the direction of the portrait hole. You were almost there when Ron came back to himself. 

“Where’re you going?” he wanted to know. 

Ginny rounded on him again. “Somewhere more private to kiss [Name], now you’ve got the whole room watching. Not that it’s any of your business where we go or what we do.” 

“You can’t!” he said, casting nervous glances at the many onlookers. 

“And why not?” 

“Because I said so. If you do, I’ll—I’ll…” 

“You’ll do what, Ron?” Ginny placed her free hand on her hip. 

“I’ll tell Mum.” 

A chorus of “ooohs” followed his declaration. To your surprise, Ginny only offered him a shrug. 

“Okay, then,” she said, and made to climb out of the common room. 

“Ginny, wait.” 

That time, it was your voice that stopped her. Throwing you a curious look, she paused. 

“What is it?” 

You were painfully aware of how many students were listening in. Months of covert dating, and _this_ was how your relationship got revealed? Shy by nature—so shy it was a wonder that beautiful, brave, talented Ginny had so much as _noticed_ you—you would have picked literally any other way to come out in public. The deed was done, though, and you wanted no more pain to come from it. 

“I don’t want you to get in trouble with your mum,” you mumbled, shuffling your feet. 

Ginny’s expression softened. “I won’t. I told her about us months ago. She’s thrilled to get to meet you this summer. Actually, _Ron’s_ the only family member I _didn’t_ tell. Because he’s a git." 

Before any further retaliation could come your way, she led you away from Gryffindor Tower. Red was the color of her gorgeous hair as it flowed behind her. Red was the color of your face as you followed her down the hall. Red was the color of Ron Weasley’s cheeks the day you learned Ginny loved you enough to tell her family about you. Was it any wonder that red was your favorite color of all?


	21. Good [Dudley Dursley]

When Dudley set out to visit his cousin, he didn't know quite what to expect. He and Harry were closer now than they had been during their childhoods, but this was to be Dudley’s first real brush with the Wizarding World. No matter what information his cousin shared via his owl-carried letters, he knew he wouldn’t be able to properly prepare. The bus ride he took to the station nearest Harry’s home was spent in unusual anxiety as a result. 

“Hey, Big D!” 

As soon as he stepped off the bus, he spotted Harry in the crowd. Dudley’s considerable bulk made cutting a path to him easy. What wasn’t easy was facing him, as Dudley was painfully aware that he had mistreated Harry in the past. Perhaps the invitation had only been offered so Harry and his friends could turn him into a pig for real this time. That was what his mother had suggested when Dudley told her where he was going for the next week. 

Harry, however, only smiled and held out a hand. 

“It’s been awhile,” he said. 

Dudley looked at the hand, then surprised Harry by hugging him and clapping him on the back. “Not so long that I’ve forgotten what a dweeb you look like.” 

The strength of his clap knocked Harry’s glasses askew. They both laughed as he adjusted them. 

“You ready to go?” Harry asked. 

“Er…” Dudley knew, of course, that he couldn’t ask Harry to forgo magic for the duration of his stay. It was as natural to him as eating was to Dudley. All the same… “How, exactly, are we getting there again?” 

“Don’t worry. I thought we’d walk. Unless you’d rather get there sooner?” 

“No,” Dudley said, too quickly. He felt his chubby cheeks warm, and awkwardly ran his thick fingers through his blond hair. “No, that’s okay. Gives us a chance to catch up, eh?” 

“If you change your mind, just let me know. At least let me levitate your things. It’s not a short walk.” 

A few minutes later, they were on their way, with Dudley pulling a feather-light trunk behind him. The people leaving alongside the pair looked normal enough—but then, they probably hadn’t made it to the weird part of town yet. He kept his eyes peeled for anyone wearing a cloak or a pointed hat but no one did. 

“So what did Aunt Petunia say when you told her you were going to come see me?” Harry asked a few minutes later. 

“Uh…” Dudley had to shake his head to get it back on track. “She was surprised, I think. But she knows you and I have been corresponding, so she understands. Probably. She’s been better about you since…well, you know.” 

“And Uncle Vernon?” 

Here Dudley had to grin. “Dunno. I’m sure Mum told him, but I’ve been avoiding his calls ever since I broke the news to her.” 

From there the conversation flowed freely. Harry asked about Dudley’s job—his father had gotten him a job at Grunnings shortly before retiring—and Dudley asked Harry about fatherhood—which was the most exhausting thing he’d ever done. The subject of Dudley’s boxing career (he was trying to go professional so he could quit the job at Grunnings) came up, too, as did that of Harry’s wife swapping jobs to work for a newspaper in lieu of whatever magical sport she'd been playing until recently. 

Though Harry claimed the walk would be long, soon they arrived at a shockingly normal-looking house in the middle of nowhere. Nothing about it looked magical to Dudley. It seemed to support itself on its own foundation, and there were no frightening smells or sounds issuing from any of the windows. The only strange things there were a group of what looked to him to be swearing potatoes strolling about the garden. Harry didn't bat an eye at them at all. 

“Ginny,” Harry said as he opened the front door, “we’re home. Oh, hello, [Name]. Wasn’t expecting to see you today.” 

Dudley followed him inside to find two women sitting side by side on the couch. Harry’s wife—a pretty redhead holding a baby—eyed him with obvious disdain as he came to an awkward stop by the stairs. The other woman he didn’t recognize, but she flushed and sprang to her feet as soon as she spotted him and his cousin. 

“I’m so sorry!” she cried. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your family time. I just wanted to see the baby. I’ve been so busy at work that today’s the first day I could, so…” 

Harry waved her down. “Don’t worry about it. James is already used to being crowded. [F Name] [L Name], this is my cousin, Dudley Dursley. Dudley, this is [Name]. She’s a friend of Ginny’s from school.” 

“Hi,” Dudley said uneasily, as he reached for your offered hand. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” you said. 

An uncomfortable silence fell. Dudley felt like the elephant in the room. _He_ should not have been there. Harry didn’t need to reconcile with him to have a happy life, and after everything Dudley had done to him and allowed to be done to him, it would be more fair to leave him to stew in his own misery. His—Dudley’s—mother had been right: Non-magic people didn’t belong in a world like this. The potato people should have been warning enough. 

“Would you like to hold the baby?” Ginny asked all of a sudden. 

“Huh?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Do you want to hold James for a little while?” 

“Er.” He had never been good around kids, even as a kid himself. What was more, Dudley suspected Ginny didn’t like him. Not that he blamed her. But if something went wrong, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself against her wrath. 

“You’d be doing me a favor. Give me a chance to stretch my legs, and I’d kill for some tea.” 

“Ginny,” Harry sighed, but Dudley pretended he did not understand her subtle threat. He was dim enough that he didn’t think she’d believe he understood it anyway. 

“All right, then,” he mumbled. 

She shoved the six-month-old into his arms, then disappeared into another room without a second glance. Dudley stared at the little boy. He had Harry’s untamable mess of dark hair and Ginny’s fiery brown eyes. 

“Looks just like you,” he said. 

“Stupid?” Harry suggested. 

“Yeah. Real stupid.” 

Someone laughed. It took a few seconds of looking around for him to remember you were there and a few seconds more to realize the sound had come out of your mouth. You blushed, ducking your head when you caught him looking. 

“S-Sorry. I should at least go make myself useful. Help Ginny with the tea.” 

“You’re fine, [Name],” said Harry. “Take a seat. I’ll go see if she needs anything.” 

You did, and so did Dudley. Once he’d seen you both settled, Harry vanished through the same door his wife had. Dudley set James’ feet carefully down on his knees. The baby gripped his fingers to keep his balance. Smiling, Dudley bounced his legs up and down until the little boy giggled and burbled. 

“So,” Dudley said, trying to break the ice, “you knew Harry in school?” 

“He was a year above me, actually,” you replied, “but I knew him by reputation. He’s quite famous in our circles.” 

“But you did go to the same school?” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“Was being magic a surprise for you, too?” 

“Not at all. Every member of my family went to Hogwarts before me. My letter was expected. My little brother, though, when _he_ didn’t get to go, _that_ was a shock.” 

Dudley frowned, still moving his knees up and down for James’ amusement. While he remained stuck on your last comment, Ginny returned with four floating mugs of tea. How could a magic family not have a child go to that school, he wondered. Before he could ask, James made a strange noise and— 

—vomited all over Dudley’s shirt. 

“Oh, no. I’m sorry,” said Ginny. Judging by her tone, Dudley wasn’t so sure that she was. He didn’t say as much, though. Didn’t have the time. You stood up and in one deft movement passed James into Harry’s arms and grabbed Dudley’s wrist to pull him up from the sofa, which was an impressive feat considering he still weighed a lot. 

“Here, let me help,” you said as you led him through that same door into the kitchen. You shoved him into a waiting chair without allowing him to protest, then turned to wet a towel in the sink. When you turned back to him, you asked, “Are you all right?” 

“I’m okay. It’s only throw up.” Though disgusted, he understood babies just _did_ that sometimes. Piers’ daughter had done the same thing the time Dudley had gone to see him. Apparently he was just a vomit magnet. What he felt more than disgusted, however, was mortified. There he was, trying to make a good impression on Harry and his family, and already he’d failed. That a very pretty woman was now rubbing a moist cloth onto his shirt didn’t help matters. 

“Still,” you said, as though you’d read his mind. Maybe you could. _He_ didn’t know what classes got taught at Harry’s school. Dudley decided to change the subject: 

“What did you mean earlier? About your brother not going to Hog-Hogwarts? Did he go to a different school?” 

“A muggle one, yes. Oh, sorry. A muggle is what we call a non-magical person.” 

Dudley nodded. “Harry told me. Why’d your brother go to one of ours?” 

“He’s a squib.” 

“A—what’s a ‘squib’?” 

“A non-magical person born to magical parents. Nigel’s quite bitter about it. He hasn’t spoken to me since I left Hogwarts. That’s why I think it’s so sweet you’re here to see Harry after all these years.” 

“You…are?” 

You let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Look at me, babbling like an idiot to a complete stranger. Harry’s been looking forward to you coming, that’s all. Ginny told me in her letters. And this—won’t—come _out_ ,” you added as you scrubbed harder at the stain. 

“Can’t you just use magic to get it out?” 

“What?” 

“You’re magic,” said Dudley. “Can’t you just—poof!—and get rid of it?” 

“Well,” you said doubtfully, “I _could_. I just thought you might not be _comfortable_ if I used magic. Wouldn’t want to scare you away or anything.” 

“When I was little, a giant gave me a pig tail because I tried to eat Harry’s birthday cake. A few years after that, Harry blew up my Aunt Marge. She had to get deflated. But he also rescued me from a couple—whatsits?—dementoids?—when we were fifteen. He saved more than my soul that day. He saved my life. If it wasn’t for his magic, I’d be worse than dead or still a real bastard.” Heat rushed to Dudley’s cheeks. Talk about babbling to a complete stranger! You didn’t care about his life, even if you were making it a point to be nice to him. Clearing his throat, he finished with, “So I know that s-some magic can be good, if the person using it is good.” 

Hesitantly, you drew a long stick of wood from your back pocket. “Are you sure?” 

He nodded. 

“Well, then— _scourgify_!” 

Just like that, Dudley’s shirt was good as new. He let out an admiring whistle. “That’s really good, that is. Could use that around my flat.” 

“I’m pretty good at cleaning spells,” you said. “Maybe I could come help you sometime. Shall we get back in there? Before they think we’re doing something _untoward_?” 

Untoward? Offering to magically clean his apartment? Dudley would be the first person to admit he’d never been very good with women. How could he be, the size he was? And they tended to like smart men. All the same, he thought there was a _slim_ chance you might have been…trying to see him again? Surely not. To save face, he didn’t respond to either of your quips. Instead, he rose to his feet. 

“Suppose so.” 

Before he could get more than two steps away from the table, you laid a hand on his shoulder. Dudley looked at you, heart hammering in his chest. 

“Don’t let Ginny get you down. She’s only testing you.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

He hadn’t known then why you were so eager to reassure him. Later, he’d find out. While he hadn’t had any idea what to expect when visiting Harry, he’d had a few ideas (most of them involving him coming out of an oven with an apple in his mouth, but still). Not in his wildest imagination had he considered that he might meet his future wife there, or that he’d learn just a little about what to do when his daughter—years later—got an invitation to Hogwarts of her very own.


	22. Love [Sirius Black]

The Order meeting that night drew to a close with a typical slow dispersal of its members. Dumbledore never officially called an end, but eventually the bringers of bad news stopped coming up and everyone knew it was time to go. As one, the group stood from its vast array of conjured chairs. Each member went their own way from there—some to home, some to assigned watches, others simply to the back of the room to speak in low voices of what information had not been lingered upon during the general discussion. 

Only you remained sitting down that night. You stared into your lap with eyes brimming with tears, your hands folded on top of one another, unmoving. Gone. All gone. You’d suspected as much—hadn’t heard from them in days—but you had not _known_ until that evening. Each week the Order of the Phoenix counted less members in its number, and that week your brothers were among the dead. 

“I’ll catch up with you later, Prongs. Be sure to give Lily and Harry my love.” 

So focused were you on not melting down before everyone else had left that you did not realize the owner of that voice was approaching you. Then they placed a hand on your shoulder. You stiffened as you looked at them. 

“[Name].” It was Sirius Black. “Apparate home with you?” 

Salt in the wound could not have hurt more. He was the very last person there you would have chosen to see you in such a state. You wanted badly to decline his offer, but you couldn’t find the words. Company would probably be better than none, too. Wordlessly, you nodded, pulled your wand out of your pocket, and, with a loud _crack_ , disappeared from your seat. 

Seconds later, you reappeared in your little flat. Sirius popped in not long after. He looked around the place. To keep yourself from watching him, you turned to light the fire. 

“Do you want some tea?” you asked stiffly. 

“I’ll make us some.” 

“You don’t have to—” 

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” 

You were not in the mood to argue with him, nor did you think he would let you do so. Crossing your arms over your chest, you stepped aside just in time for your kettle to soar into the fireplace. A second of hesitation on your part would have had Sirius send the object crashing directly into your head. 

“What are you doing standing around for?” he demanded. “Sit.” 

Awfully rich of him to order you to sit in your own home, you thought. All the same, there wasn’t anything else for you to do. Nothing could distract you from your grief. You sat at the very edge of the armchair, then stared into space until your companion pressed a warm mug into your hand. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked. 

You met his soft gaze with a glare. “How do you _think_ I’m doing?” 

“Bloody awful.” 

“Good guess.” 

When you said no more, Sirius went to sit on the couch. “I’m sorry about your brothers,” he said after you both took several sips of tea. “They were good wizards.” 

“Not good enough to live. Sirius, what are you doing here?” 

“What do you mean, what am I doing here? I was under the impression that I was comforting you.” 

“And I would want comfort from my ex-boyfriend, why?” You primly set your cup on your coffee table, coasters be damned. 

“I…well…” 

“My family is gone. I don’t need you making me feel worse.” 

“I’m not trying to make you feel worse!” He looked hurt, and you weren’t sure if that satisfied you or not. With his free hand, he reached over and took one of yours. “You need someone with you here tonight.” 

“I don’t recall inviting you to say,” you said as you raised your eyebrows. 

“Not like that.” 

“What other way do you have?” Shaking off his hand, you stood and crossed to the window. “I’ll send a patronus and ask Alice to come over. _She_ can stay with me, if it’ll ease that microbe you call a conscience. At least _she_ won’t leave me a single mother.” 

“What’s a mic—never mind. Don’t be like this.” 

“Be like what? Angry? I think I have the right to be angry.” 

“I agree! But can’t you just let me _try_ to explain?” 

“What’s there to explain? You broke up with me. My brothers are dead. I’m all alone. If you think pretending you love me again will fix everything, you’re more conceited than I gave you credit for.” 

The tears you’d managed to quash at the meeting rushed to your eyes again. With a sniff, you wiped them away with a sleeve while you stared at the dark, empty streets below. They hadn’t always been like that. You-Know-Who had taken more than family from your life. He’d taken all the light away with it. 

Sirius sighed. You ignored his footsteps in the hope he was getting ready to leave. Instead, he stepped behind you and held your arms in his hands. 

“I thought it would be easier,” he said. 

“You thought _what_ would be easier?” 

“Everyone is dying. If one of us did, it would hurt the other.” 

“So you broke my heart to avoid hurting when I died?” You twisted your head toward him as you spoke. 

“Well, no.” 

“Oh, you thought _I_ couldn’t handle it if I lost _you_?” 

“That’s not it either!” Frustrated, he ran a hand through his long, dark hair. “I’m not doing this right. I just thought, if we weren’t together anymore, we wouldn’t love each other when the time came.” 

You felt a small pang where your aching heart sat. He really had given up, hadn’t he? The Order of the Phoenix couldn’t go on much longer. Sirius was right. The end would come sooner or later, and it was starting to look a lot like sooner. 

“How did that work out for you?” you whispered. 

“Not at all.” He spun you around to face him, then moved your hair from your face with gentle fingers. “I still love you, [Name]. I never stopped. Let me stay. I’ll sleep on the couch. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to see the Longbottoms. You can visit Neville. Just please let me help. One last time.” 

Your eyes roved around his face. He _appeared_ sincere—sincere and tired and anxious. Everyone in the Order did, yourself included. Sirius was good at pretending, though. You’d known that since before you started dating. Just because he _appeared_ honest did not mean that you were about to admit that you still loved him, too. He might have thought it funny if Peter and Remus and James burst out of the closet after you made a fool of yourself, but that was hardly likely to cheer _you_ up at all. 

“Let me get this straight,” you said a little hoarsely. “Because you thought we couldn’t live without each other, you decided to…make us live without each other?” 

“When you put it that way,” he said, “it sounds rather stupid.” 

“It _is_ rather stupid. Thanks for the tea, Sirius. Now get out of my house.” 

You shoved him away before heading to the bedroom, but you didn’t get far before he captured you again. “Dammit, [Name]!” he said, pressing you against the wall. “I’m sorry, all right? What do I have to do? Beg? I’ll beg. You don’t have to take me back, but you can’t send me away like this!” 

“Like hell I can’t! It’s _my_ flat!” 

“It used to be mine, too.” 

“And who’s fault is it that it’s not anymore?” 

“Mine! I’ve already said so. Why are you being so _stubborn_?” 

“Why do _you_ think marching in here and telling me you still love me will change anything? Did your ego finally reach the size of a giant?” 

“I’m trying to help you!” 

“I don’t want your help _or_ your pity!” 

Unnoticed by you, your faces had moved closer and closer throughout your argument. Now Sirius’ mouth was less than an inch from yours. His gray eyes were fixed upon your lips. “It’s…not pity,” he said vaguely, and before you could do anything to stop him, he kissed you. 

His mouth was warm but greedy, and yours wasn’t much different. You melted against his familiar form. Swiftly, his hands dropped to grip your hips as you tangled your fingers in his hair. This display continued for several minutes more. When you finally stopped, the sitting room spun around you. 

“So…forgive me yet?” Sirius asked a few minutes later. 

You shook your head to clear it in time to see his smug smile. “I’ll think about it. You can stay the night. On the couch,” you added after his grin widened. _That_ slapped the pleased expression right off his face. 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.” You weren’t going to risk letting any of his hiding friends get more of a show. It was your turn to smile then, thin as that smile was. “I need to be alone tonight. If you’re still here in the morning…” 

“We’ll discuss it then?” 

“Right. Goodnight, Sirius. Thank you for keeping me company.” You brushed past him, lingering only long enough to kiss his cheek. That time, he didn’t make a move to stop you in your tracks. 

Whatever Sirius thought about keeping you apart, that night you slept better than you had in months. Just knowing he was there, close by and relatively safe, soothed you into an uneasy sleep. Your brothers were still dead, after all. Yet knowing the man you still loved loved you helped you believe that life might still be worth fighting for.


	23. Friendship [James Potter II]

Night had long since fallen when James Potter stepped onto the quidditch pitch. The rest of the castle was asleep or otherwise under curfew, but such rules did not apply to him—not when he had his father’s invisibility cloak, anyway. After repeated promises not to use it for further mischief, James’ dad had finally returned the magical object to his possession. That night was the first time he’d used the cloak since then, and since he wasn’t up to no good, _technically_ he wasn’t breaking his promise. 

He pulled it off to feel the cool breeze against his skin. A perfect, starry night with an enormous moon hung above his head. Better conditions he could not have asked for. All he needed to do was pull his miniaturized broom from his pocket, restore it to full glory, and then— 

“Oy, Potter!” 

James jumped, looking wildly around until he spotted the dark shape flying toward him from the opposite goal posts. The voice sounded familiar enough that he didn’t think to pull his wand out or to run away. Sure enough, when that shape got close enough, it materialized into the familiar shape of his best mate, [F Name] [L Name]. 

“What are you doing out so late at night?” he asked with a jaunty smile. 

You returned his grin. “Same as you, I suspect. Couldn’t sleep?” 

“Not with that final match looming. How’d you get out here?” Though the two of you often shared his invisibility cloak as children, only one person could fit under it at a time now. Obviously, you hadn’t been with James on his trek that evening, so the question remained. 

“Disillusionment charm,” you answered. “Not perfect, but Filch’s eyes aren’t what they used to be.” 

James laughed. “Clearly. You missed a spot on your shoulder when you removed it. Come here.” 

When you stepped closer, he tapped the offending green patch (too bright to blend into the field by moonlight) and muttered the charm to fix it. The spot returned to the color of your robes. 

“Thanks,” you said, and drew in an usually shaky breath. “So, sneaked out for a spot of practice?” 

“You know it. Don’t want a repeat of last year’s cup match, do we?” 

“Not for your last Hogwarts game, Captain.” 

Your smile and salute sent a cascade of ice mice into his stomach. He abruptly turned to make a beeline for the locker rooms. “Be right back,” he said, moving so quickly he hardly heard your bewildered answer. 

Back in the safety of the changing area, James cursed at himself. Why? Why did you have to go and surprise him like that? If he’d known you sneaked out that night, too…Well, it didn’t matter anymore. You were both there. He had a reputation to uphold, and he wasn’t going to let his feelings get in the way of that. Taking a deep breath, he re-enlarged his Nimbus 2500, and, for good measure (and a good excuse for running off), nicked a quaffle from the crate in the office. 

When he returned, you were flying slow circles around the stands. He took off to meet you. You didn’t notice—not until he chucked the ball straight at the back of your head. Just before it made contact, you spun around and caught the quaffle. 

“Nice try, James,” you said. 

“Good one. Keep that up and you’ll maintain your status as best chaser my team’s ever had.” 

“That’s not what you said last year when I lost us the cup.” 

“Well, I…” James’ face burned. After enduring almost an entire year of teasing for putting his friend (and secret crush) on the team, seeing you fumble that pass so spectacularly had upset him. If he hadn’t screamed at you, he wondered to that day, would things be different between the two of you? 

“Don’t look so worried,” you assured him. “I’ve been practicing around the clock. This year, I won’t let you down. Hey.” 

Unlike him, you managed to bean James right in the face. He swore as he struggled to get back on his broom. 

“What was that for?” he demanded. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

“What are you on about?” 

“Are you mad at me? Ever since I told you about Titus, you’ve been acting funny.” 

“I have not!” 

“Have too.” 

“Have _not_!” 

You sighed. “Have it your way. Toss the quaffle over here again, would you?” 

He did, though not without a certain amount of guilt unfurling inside him. You were right: He _was_ acting weird—recent absconding to the lockers included. For years, the two of you (and Teddy, when he was still at Hogwarts) were inseparable. Then you’d had your first big fight over the closing match last year. _Then_ you hooked up with Titus McKenzie over the summer. Everything became Titus this and Titus that. It was enough to drive James mad—but not for the reason you thought. 

When you broke up with Titus three weeks ago, you told James you hoped the two of you could go back to being friends. James hadn’t been altogether thrilled by his best friend changing into such a _girl_ (or so you believed), so things had been iffy before then. But now all he could think about was how you’d said _friends_. _Friendship_ was the problem. Because he was in love with you, truly, madly, deeply in love with you. Had been since fifth year. Sure, James had had a few girlfriends since, but it was always you he wanted. Always. 

(Funnily, when he confessed this to his father in those exact words, his father looked _very_ concerned.) 

Titus was _your_ first serious relationship. Coming on the heels of your first equally serious fight with James, he realized he’d lost his chance to confess to you, too. Now you were broken up. You were free. And he was too much a coward to tell you still. It made him sick. Maybe he _should_ have been in Slytherin with Albus, if James was going to lack courage. Albus was _exactly_ the kind of person to avoid telling a girl he liked her if doing so might ruin their friendship…although James wasn’t sure Albus _knew_ any girls, or even liked them. He’d always sort of suspected Albus might be into the Malfoy boy. 

You pitched the quaffle toward the nearly invisible hoop. It missed, hitting the edge and tumbling to the ground. James dived to catch it. When he soared up to pass it to you, you accepted it with an awkward, “Thanks.” 

“Hopefully you’re better at scoring when the sun’s out.” You didn’t crack a smile. “Listen, [Name], I’m sorry, all right? Go date Titus again. I don’t care.” 

“You hate him.” 

“Only because you never stop talking about him.” 

“Oh, because _you_ were so subtle when you were snogging Irma.” 

“I was fifteen!” he protested. “I _do_ want to be friends again. If that means listening to you prattle on about that Hufflepuff moron, so be it.” 

“If you think he’s such a moron, why do you want me to be with him?” 

“Because I want you to be _happy_. And to not hate me. It would kill me if you hated me.” 

“Then _you’re_ a moron, too. I could never hate you, and,” your teeth flashed at him through the dark, “Titus doesn’t make me happy.” 

James nearly fell off his broom for a second time. “He doesn’t?” 

“No! I broke up with him for a good reason.” 

“And what reason is that?” 

There was a long pause. “Well…” Another followed. “Well, if you must know, I only dated Titus to make you jealous.” 

“Why would you do that?” 

“Because last year when you were so angry, Lily told me it was because you liked me and didn’t want anyone to know. I wanted to see if that was true. Was it?” 

“Er…” 

“You _seemed_ jealous. You hardly spoke to me all year. But then you avoided me after we broke up. Was Lily wrong?” 

Damn. James liked Lily. Of his siblings, she was easily his favorite. Shame he’d have to strangle her when he saw her the following day. Especially since his mother would kill him in return. At least Albus didn’t go around telling everyone James’ closest guarded secrets—though, again, it wasn’t like he had anybody to tell. 

“No,” James answered at last. “She wasn’t wrong. She’s a blabby little thing, but she wasn’t wrong.” 

“Then why,” you asked, “haven’t you done anything?”” 

“Because I didn’t want to screw up our friendship more than I already have! Besides, I prefer to leave the sappy emotional scenes to my little brother.” 

“So you _do_ like me?” 

“Of course I like you! I have since I was fifteen and snogging Irma!” 

“Then that wasn’t going to ruin our friendship.” You pushed your broom so close its handle knocked into his. “Because I like you, too.” 

Kissing when each partner sat on a different broom was not an easy thing to do. Once you’d leaned forward, though, James forgot all about that. The meeting of your mouths was awkward and confusing and absolutely the most wonderful kiss he’d ever experienced. At least it was, until the flying instructor—alerted by a charm that someone had broken into the box of balls in the middle of the night—showed up and doused you both with a heavy jet of water. But, oh well, James thought, as you and he streaked off laughing to the castle. There’d be plenty more where that came from. If your friendship had lasted through all that, he had a good feeling your relationship would last even longer than that.


	24. Farewell [Lucius Malfoy]

Malfoy Manor forever appeared a grand establishment even to the purest of wizarding eyes. It was of all pure-blood homes the most distinguished. Never more so was this true than on the evening that its heir, Lucius Malfoy, entered into matrimony with one Narcissa Black. Only the best of enchantments and ornaments swathed the home that night, and several extra house-elves had been hired for the occasion. Such was the importance of the event to those in attendance. 

Despite the wealth on display, however, the reception was a small one. The pure-blood population had shrank to shamefully small numbers in recent years. Only a few of the oldest families now remained to offer congratulations to the new bride and groom. Not helping the noticeable lack of guests was that one had already slipped away before the party began. 

In the garden, you could no longer hear the happy crowd. It was just you lurking out there, and several of the Malfoys’ pet albino peacocks. Even those ignored you. As you ran your fingers through the pool of the vast magical fountain you sat beside, you mused that such treatment ought not surprise you. None of the visitors had noticed you disappear either. The wedding made your status as a nobody official. 

“I thought I might find you out here.” 

“What do you want, Lucius?” you asked without turning to look at him. 

“To see you, of course.” 

“Well, that’s too bad. I don’t want to see you.” 

Never one to be denied, Lucius did not take his leave. Two fingers slipped beneath your chin and gently forced your head up. You narrowed your [color] eyes. He always looked beautiful, but that evening he looked especially resplendent in dress robes of Slytherin green and with his long, silver-blond hair pulled into an elegant braid behind him. Normally he would have looked you up and down in return; instead, he sighed, released your face, and sat down next to you. 

“I didn’t think you’d come at all,” he said. 

“Father made me. I believe he wanted to punish me for not snapping you up when I had the chance.” 

“Or me for not doing the snapping.” 

“That is also possible,” you conceded. “I feel thoroughly punished. How about you?” 

Lucius didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on the window through which his reception could be seen. Your hand reached out to brush his shoulder before you could remind yourself that you were privileged to touch him no longer. The unblemished skin and exquisite body beneath his robes did not belong to you. As soon as he shifted his gaze back to you, you withdrew your fingers. 

“I didn’t come here to ruin your wedding, if that’s what you’re thinking,” you said. 

“If I thought you would, I would not have sent you _or_ your delightful father an invitation.” 

“If you hadn’t, there would be hardly anyone here to celebrate your nuptials.” 

“Sad isn’t it?” 

“Hm. Not for much longer. I’m sure you and Narcissa will be eager to get more pure-blood children out into the world.” 

He nodded. “And you and Parkinson as well.” 

“No.” You turned to look at your reflection in the water below. “We will not.” 

“What on earth do you mean? If we are to create a pure-blood world for the Dark Lord—” 

“It has nothing to do with not wanting to serve him. I declined Perseus’ proposal.” 

“You _what_?” 

“I told him that I wouldn’t marry him.” 

Forgetting himself for the moment, Lucius grabbed both your shoulders and shook you until you faced him once more. “Why? Why would you do that? The Parkinsons are an ancient family! You couldn’t ask for better!” 

You shot him a wry smile. “It _was_ a foolish decision. I did it because I held out hope that you might change your mind.” 

The effect of your words was immediate; Lucius released you as though burned. All at once, the tables turned. _He_ could no longer look at _you_ —which was a pity because you’d gone all out for your wardrobe for the occasion. A familiar pink tinge crept into his cheeks that made plain he was frustrated. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said shortly. 

“Believe me, I know. I just thought perhaps our years in school meant something to you.” You stood and walked several paces to stand by a bush bursting with flowers. 

“They did!” You snorted. “[Name], you must believe me. All those nights together—when I told you I loved you—I was telling the truth.” 

Through the same window, you could see Narcissa basking in the glow of her guest’s adoration. Her typical expression of disgust had left her face for once. She was beautiful in a way that only pure-bloods could be. You could not find it in yourself to hate her even then. Where you had chosen to decline an offer of acceptable marriage, she had not. Could anyone truly blame her? She would suit Lucius well as a wife. Better, perhaps, than you would have. Your talents did not lie in the realm of pleasing others by sacrificing yourself. 

“I’m sorry,” Lucius’s voice whispered in your ear. His palms ghosted over your upper arms in another reminder of a time long past. You spun around to look him in the eye, and he, too, seemed to think better of continuing that sort of contact. He swallowed, and continued, “I have a duty to my family. You knew that from the start.” 

“I did.” 

“Now that I am with Narcissa, I intend to do my duty to her as well. I want to make her _happy_.” 

“And I am sure you will. I’ve no desire to become your mistress, Lucius.” 

He visibly relaxed, you noted with some amusement. Same old Lucius. Marriage had not been enough to convince him that you would not spend the rest of your days pining for him. You had to come out and _say_ so one last time. Always thought the best of himself, he did. It would never occur to him that you understood you were worth more than being someone’s secret lover. 

“I suppose this is goodbye, then,” he said. 

“For now. We’ll still see each other at the meetings.” 

The look on his face when he realized what you meant by that nearly made you laugh. Since doing so would have been even more undignified than the rest of your behavior that evening, you did not. You did, however, allow yourself a smirk at his expense. 

“You took the mark?” he asked once he’d recovered. 

“Of course I did. We all must do our part, and as I won’t be bearing pure-blood children anytime soon…Now,” your tone turned businesslike, “shouldn’t you be getting back to your wife before she wonders just who you sneaked off to see?” 

He started and immediately rushed off to the door that led back into the manor. He paused before he opened it. “Aren’t you coming with me?” 

Shaking your head, you drew back toward the fountain again. “You did break my heart, you know. I think I’d rather not have that rubbed in my face tonight, despite Father’s hopes. Please give Narcissa my well wishes. She’ll be needing them.” 

Though he looked as though he wanted to offer a witty retort to your last word, he did not. Lucius lingered at the door only a moment longer. “Very well. Goodbye, Miss [L Name].” 

“Goodbye, Mister Malfoy. And congratulations.” 

Lucius bowed before returning to his reception. Once more you were left in the company of no one but those ghostly birds while the man you loved danced with another woman. When you checked your reflection in the fountain pool, though, you no longer saw a nobody. You saw the strong, pure-blood woman Lucius Malfoy had once loved. You saw a woman with a future and with a purpose—even if that future and purpose would not be with him. Somehow you’d make your mark on the wizarding world without him at your side.


	25. Forever [Scorpius Malfoy]

Of all the universes he could have landed in, of all the futures his actions might have wrought, Scorpius Malfoy had _never_ imagined the one in which he found himself. He and Albus wanted to help. All they wanted was to bring back an old man’s pride and joy. Instead they’d twisted the Wizarding World into a mockery of its former self. Cedric lived, yes, but at what cost? Thousands of other lives; a madwoman in charge of Hogwarts; Scorpius’ own father _working_ for her; and—worst of all—no Albus to turn to for another foolish scheme to set things right. 

The castle was far too crowded—ironic, considering that no one but pure-bloods could truly attend anymore. For Scorpius, always something of an outcast, the sudden influx of fans and followers felt stifling. He could not think with so many people around. So he had fled outside. For once, he was thankful for the special status that kept the lurking dementors at bay. His gratitude lasted only until he saw that the grounds were just as bleakly barren as the multitude of empty classrooms cast aside when Hogwarts could no longer admit students with certain blood status. 

What was he supposed to do? No Albus, no Headmistress McGonagall; not even Albus’s father could help because he was _dead_. They had killed Albus’ dad! The thought was enough to make Scorpius’ head spin. He had no one to turn to, and was utterly trapped in the worst possible life he could ever have lived. Nothing in the place looked familiar at all…or so he thought, until he spotted a flash of movement out of the corner of one eye. 

Perhaps he was seeing things due to stress, for whatever it was that had moved vanished as soon as he tried to get a better look at it. Frowning, he turned his path in the direction of his hallucination. Just ahead of him sat the greenhouses, now all in disarray, save for those that housed the plants that created the nastiest of poisons. There behind them something moved again. 

Scorpius gripped his wand tightly in one hand as he followed. Every part of his mind screamed at him to stop. Nothing good would come of snooping around. Headmistress Umbridge had already found him where he ought not to have been once. To let her do so a second time might get _him_ a round of torture with the muggle-borns. He was quite certain he wouldn’t be able to withstand _that_. But so what if his phantom _was_ a trap? What use was it to stay alive anymore? Spending the rest of his life pretending to be the “Scorpion King” was entirely out of the question. 

The something must have spotted him then, because it took off like a shot spell. He increased his speed. A curse—exactly which, he could not tell—grazed the top of his head. The smell of singed hair filled his nostrils. Still sprinting, he shot a stunning spell back at the something (which must have, he realized then, been a person, with a silver thing trailing in their wake). Back and forth he and the other went, slinging spells at each other while Scorpius remained in hot pursuit. Farther from Hogwarts he chased them, and farther still. Until— 

“Augh!” 

One of his stunners hit the person on the leg. They tumbled to the ground. The little silver shape disappeared. As Scorpius raced up, the figure twisted around to glare up at him. He bent down to get a better look and saw the last person he had expected to. 

“[Name]?” he gasped. 

The girl in what remained of the grass could be no other. Just like everything else in that warped world, something about you was off, though. Before he could put his finger on what, you spat in his face. 

No sooner had he lifted an arm to wipe the saliva from his nose than did you get up and try running once more. You didn’t get far. Confused and upset, Scorpius staggered after you, and that time you _both_ fell over in a tangle of limbs. 

“Get off me, Malfoy!” you said. 

“I _was_ off you.” 

“Get off _now_.” 

“If I do, will you promise not to run?” 

“No.” 

After a pause, Scorpius got up anyway. You stood immediately. Then your face went sickly pale and you went down again with a swear. 

“I think you broke my ankle!” 

“I’m sorry,” said Scorpius. 

A hysterical laugh answered him. “Sorry? You’ve finally caught me, and you’re _sorry_? The dementors will do far worse to me than break an ankle, you filthy, Voldemort-worshiping—” 

“I’m not giving you to the dementors,” he interrupted. 

“Sure you aren’t. And I’m the Augury's Heir.” 

“ _Are_ you?” 

The ugly smile playing at the corners of your mouth twisted into an equally ugly scowl. “Same crummy sense of humor as always.” 

“[Name]—” 

“I think we can dispense with the lovey-dovey act, don’t you?” 

“Lovey-dovey? Act?” 

“Oh, _please_. Cut the dung, ‘Scorpion King.’ You know I know you were only with me to reveal me as a traitor. You’ve got what you wanted now, so you can stop with the ‘[Name]s’ and the moon eyes and the fake confusion. Call your dementor pals. Kissing them will be a hell of a lot easier than kissing _you_.” 

As he gaped at you, you lifted your chin defiantly. Scorpius got the feeling that you’d been wanting to say all of that for a very, very long time. He also got the feeling you really _would_ prefer to get the soul sucked out of you rather than spend another second in his company. What sort of person _was_ the Scorpius there? Any of those things he might have commented upon. Instead, his mouth chose to say: 

“We’ve kissed?” 

“Someone obliviate you recently?” For the first time, you looked a little bewildered yourself. 

“No, I just—where I come from, you and I don’t…kiss.” 

“Must be nice. You gonna tell me you’re some escaped experiment from the Department of Mysteries?” 

“I don’t come from a different _place_.” Why Scorpius felt he could confess that to you, he didn’t know. Just as he wore the face of someone you knew, you were not his friend [Name] either. You clearly hated him. Perhaps that was enough. No one else around hated him enough. “I come from a different time. You and me and Albus—” 

“Who the hell is Albus?” 

“Our best friend. Harry Potter’s youngest son.” 

“Harry Potter died before he could have kids.” You looked cross again. “If this is just a ploy to get me to help you betray my real friends, I’ll curse you.” 

“It’s not,” Scorpius said, desperate. Albus! He had forgotten all about Albus, and unlike you, he had no excuse. “Where were you going? Where is it you think I so badly wanted to find?” 

“I’m not telling _you_.” 

“I need help. I’ve got to set things right. Voldemort wasn’t supposed to win, [Name], and you’re not supposed to hate me, and Albus has got to be born! I’ll do anything for help. Anything! I’ll—I’ll make the unbreakable vow!” 

You eyed him before asking, “You really want to find them that badly?” 

“Them? Who’s them?” 

Another soft swear word escaped you. Though clearly in pain, you turned away and limped back toward the greenhouses. Silver clouds puffed from the end of your wand. They could not last long enough to congeal into a proper form. Scorpius followed you, hesitated, then grabbed your shoulder. You wrenched it out of his grasp with a snarl. 

“Who is ‘them,’ [Name]?” Scorpius demanded. 

“I am _not_ falling for this. You’re pretending. All I have to do is show you the place and every Death Eater in the country will find it, too. He’ll say I fell for you after all. I won’t do it.” 

Scorpius didn’t have a clue what you were on about. Places and unknown people that you knew and he didn’t, kisses he didn’t remember. You were not the [Name] he knew. But then, he wasn’t the Scorpius you knew either. _He_ wanted to save you, even if that meant never kissing you himself—which frankly, he couldn’t imagine minding all that much. If only he could make you understand! 

Then it hit him: 

“You’re not pure-blood.” 

You froze with your injured ankle held gingerly in the air. 

“You’re not pure-blood,” he repeated, “but you got sorted into Syltherin.” 

Your [color] eyes were huge when you turned them on him. “How do you know—” 

“You told me and Albus. We’re the only ones you ever told because you thought the rest of the house would tease you for it. We never told a soul.” 

“I never told _you_.” 

“You did. In another time, where we’re friends. Where Voldemort doesn’t win. Take me to whoever you’re helping. Please. I just want to fix things.” 

By then, you were trembling so hard he was surprised you hadn’t fallen down again. “How do I know,” you asked in a hard voice, “that you’re telling the truth?” 

“Would he—I mean, the other Scorpius—want to help you?” 

“No, but—” 

“Would he want to make sure Voldemort died instead of Harry Potter?” 

You shook your head. 

“Then you know. Please help me. You’ll never have to kiss me again if you do,” he added hopefully. 

After staring at him a minute or so more, you took a deep breath. “So there really is good in Scorpius Malfoy after all. You just have to go to a different universe to find it.” 

“Well, I don’t know about _good_ , but—” 

He couldn’t finish his sentence before you leaned in and kissed him briefly on the mouth. The shock of your gesture prevented him from saying anything more, or doing anything that wasn’t noting the warm, fuzzy feeling that erupted in his stomach once you stepped away. 

“That one was in good faith,” you informed him, grabbing his wrist. “If the other me in _your_ timeline doesn’t want to kiss you…” You trailed away to let his imagination fell in the rest. Doing so didn’t take much. Even the [Name] he knew was quite a talented witch. 

“Oh no! It’s not like that. We’re only friends. Rose is the one I like. _Rose_.” But if that were the case, why did he feel he needed to make you aware of the fact? It wasn’t like Rose existed there for you to know of her. Even then you didn’t look entirely convinced. 

“Sure. Come on. If I die today, I die. But if I can help it, I’m not living in this hellscape one day longer than I have to.” 

Without further discussion, you summoned your patronus anew. It formed that time. The silver glow filled Scorpius with warmth and hope as he followed you away from the castle. Then again (and he only realized much later), you held his hand throughout the entire journey. Maybe _you_ were what made his time there as comforting as possible—just as you often provided comfort to him in your universe after.


	26. Images [Luna Lovegood]

The influx of patients from the aftermath of Voldemort’s fall took some time to trickle out of the wards of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. For a while, the place remained so packed that visitors such as yourself found it nearly impossible to make their way to who they were looking for. Only after several weeks passed did you obtain the permission—and the space—to go see Luna. 

She either did not notice or did not care that the door to her room opened just widely enough for someone out in the hallway to peer at her. After everything she had been through, Luna appeared to be in surprisingly good health. Still a little malnourished, perhaps, but otherwise she looked the same as ever: pale, surprised, and just a little dotty. 

“You can come in, you know,” she said, without taking her protuberant eyes off her back copy of the _Quibbler._. “There aren’t any nargles. I checked.” 

Face burning over having been caught staring, you slipped inside. The other bed in the tiny room was empty; her roommate must have been discharged that morning. A small collection of plants and flowers adorned the flat surfaces around Luna’s bed. You spotted cards on them from Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Neville at a glance, and mentally kicked yourself for not thinking of sending her some flowers of your own. 

“Are you all right? Was there a nargle after all?” 

“No!” You snapped your attention to her and saw her eyeing you with unusual concern. “Just…looking.” 

“For xyloians? They _do_ like an atmosphere of anxiety. What better place to find one?” 

“No, sorry.” Hastily, you sat in the chair pulled up next to her. “How are you, Luna?” 

She blinked. “I’m all right.” 

“You are?” 

“I think so.” 

“Then why are you still here?” 

After another handful of seconds of thoughtful silence, she slowly sat her magazine on top of the towering stack beside her. “They want to observe me still, I think. For signs of trauma. I don’t know where else I’d go anyway. Daddy’s on trial and that crumple-horned snorkack horn destroyed the house.” 

You did your best not to betray how alarming the news that Luna still needed observing was to you. She didn’t _look_ any more traumatized than before. In fact, she looked just like the girl you’d fallen for two years ago, but who knew what they’d done to her while she was trapped in the bowels of Malfoy manor? Neither of you’d seen the other since her rescue, at least, not long enough to have had a real conversation about the matter. 

“Where will you go when they release you?” you asked. 

Luna answered with her typical dreamy tone: “Back to Hogwarts, I expect. I’ll need to redo the year.” 

“What about _before_ school starts?” 

“I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. Maybe Daddy’s trial will be over by then, and we can go find another crumple-horned snorkack horn to put in the new house.” 

_That_ you doubted. The Ministry was virtually flooded with Death Eaters and Death Eater accomplices in need of judgement. Luna’s father—whose true allegiance had only been altered by her abduction—would not be their top priority. St. Mungo’s could not keep Luna indefinitely either, which brought you to one of the subjects you’d wanted to broach during your visit: 

“Why don’t you come stay with me once you’re out?” 

“With _you_?” Luna’s eyes widened even further. “Why would I go stay with you?” 

Your heart sank. Her answer was not the one you wanted to hear. What was more, when you did not reply, she simply picked up where had she left off in her reading. For quite some time, you just sat there with your hands on your knees. Luna turned page after page without so much as telling you that you could leave. A million questions buzzed through your wind like a swarm of wrackspurts, and foremost among those questions was the same one that plagued you each and every night: Did Luna want you around at all anymore? 

“Luna?” 

“Yes?” 

“Are you mad at me?” 

When she looked up at you, she had a little crease between her eyebrows. “Why would you think I’m mad at you?” 

“You’ve hardly looked at me the whole time I’ve been here,” you answered. “When we were all at Bill's, we barely spoke, and at the Manor…” 

“You were busy with Harry and Ron and Hermione. I do appreciate you being there to rescue me. That was very gallant.” 

“That’s not the point!” 

“What _is_ the point?” 

How did she not know? You’d been with your friends the entire year. Hermione made no secret that the four of you visited Luna’s home before its unfortunate destruction. But as you watched her for signs of deceit, her expression of mild confusion did not change. You took a nervous breath and asked the _real_ question you’d been wrestling with for weeks: 

“Luna, what about those paintings in your bedroom?” 

For a moment, the look on her face shifted just enough for you to tell that you’d surprised her. Then she went back to being typical serene manner. “You saw those?” 

You nodded. “I saw them.” 

“Oh. I thought only Harry bothered to go upstairs.” 

“I was curious.” 

“Yes, I can understand that.” 

“They were quite…nice.” 

‘But you didn’t like them,” she said knowingly. 

“It’s not that I didn’t _like_ them. They were spectacular. You’ve got a real gift. But…” 

“But what?” 

“But you didn’t have one of _me_ ,” you said in a small voice. The burning sensation returned to your cheeks. 

“No,” she agreed. 

“But you _did_ have one for Ginny and Harry and Hermione and even Ron.” 

“I did.” 

You loved Luna, but sometimes resisting the urge to shake some sense into her became difficult. Either she _still_ didn’t understand the problem, or she didn’t care about how you felt. Why did she have to be so difficult to read? 

“Is there something about Ginny you aren’t telling me?” you demanded at last. 

Luna thought about it. “I don’t think so. I _do_ believe Ron is suffering from an invasion of glownomers, though. Makes him prone to agitation. Why? Do you think I ought to warn her before the glownomers get her, too?” 

“Are you in love with Ginny?” 

“Me? In love with Ginny? Since when?” 

“Well, I _was_ gone for an awfully long time, some of that _before_ the Death Eaters got you, and she _is_ very pretty. Not to mention—” 

“She’s head over heels for Harry,” Luna interrupted calmly, “and last time I checked, I was head over heels for _you_.” 

“You…you are?” 

“Of course. The only reason I didn’t have a painting of you was because of Daddy’s experiments with monezanes. They’re attracted to art, you know, and they might have eaten it. That’s bad luck if they eat an image of someone you love. Besides, I couldn’t get the painting to look pretty enough,” she added as an afterthought. 

A great wave of relief washed over you. Luna still loved you. All the silence on her part was just her being herself—and processing whatever ordeal she’d gone through at Malfoy Manor. She’d probably have told you sooner, if you’d been able to get through the crowds inside the hospital. You felt so happy you could have floated like a balloon all the way to the ceiling. Then it all came crashing down when you remembered what _else_ you’d discussed that day. 

“How come you won’t come live with me after you’re discharged, then?” you asked. 

“[Name], I love you, but I think it’s a little soon for us to consider moving in. Even if you are my girlfriend, you’re still barely of age yourself. Anyway,” she reached for another _Quibbler_ , “ _you’ll_ need to go take last year’s classes, too. I expect I’ll be seeing a lot of you at Hogwarts.” 

All you could do was look at her and feel your heart swell with love. She really was the smarter person in your relationship. Xenophilius wouldn’t have a long sentence. Once he got out, he probably wouldn’t be thrilled to find his only daughter living with one of the people that had got him arrested in the first place. Luna was right about another thing as well: You’d be seeing her a lot in school. In fact, you would demand it. Absence made the heart grow fonder, and you’d already been pretty enormously fond of Luna before you spent a year away from her.


	27. Picture [Ron Weasley]

Hogwarts never felt quite so lonely as it did when your best friends fought. No Hermione to help you with your wandwork. No Harry to cheer you on with your practicing to join him on the quidditch team. No Ron to make you laugh. You skipped dinner that evening to avoid the unpleasantness that always cropped up when the four of you got together those days. Slogging through your History of Magic essay without company would be difficult, but doable, and much more enjoyable than watching the boys compete to see who could bring Hermione closest to tears. 

Because everyone else in the tower was eating, you got the choicest seat in the common room to work. You settled down, pulled out your books, scrawled the title of your essay—“Burgeoning Tensions Between Muggles and Wizards in Britain”—at the top of your parchment, and began to read. 

Then someone _else_ burst into the otherwise empty common room. 

Fumbling your book, you caught only a glimpse of red out of the corner of your eye before whoever it was stomped right over to you. That was enough, though. You knew precisely who had decided to interrupt your quiet time before Ron arrived. His face was a mask of rage. Before you could attempt to offer a polite greeting, he tossed a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ down on top of what little you had finished of your assignment. 

“Have you _seen_ this?” he demanded, throwing himself into the chair next to yours. 

“Probably not. I’ve been avoiding the _Prophet_ lately.” 

“Lucky you. Look at it now.” 

“Do I have to?” 

“Yes.” 

You knew better than to argue with him when he was in that kind of temper. Already Harry had lost Ron’s friendship. The last thing you wanted was to lose it as well. If he thought you were against him—or worse, in league with your brother—Ron would probably never speak to you again. Even the thought was too much to bear. As much as you loved Harry, you did not miss the days when it was just the two of you against the world. 

Sighing, you twisted the paper toward you to get a better look at its front page. Why anyone would bother reading it now that almost every article bore the name Rita Skeeter underneath its title, you didn’t know. If Ron was in such a foul mood, that had to have been her doing, too. Just as you thought: “THE CHAMPION THAT SHOULDN’T BE: RITA SKEETER’S EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH TRAGIC TEEN HERO HARRY POTTER” emblazoned the top of the newspaper, and underneath it was an enormous photograph of Harry. 

“Oh dear,” you said weakly. 

“Yeah,” Ron sneered, “‘dear’ old Harry at it again.” 

“Ron…” 

“What?” 

“Can’t you just…” But what exactly you hoped he would do was beyond even you. 

“No, I can’t.” 

His words sounded final. After that, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared moodily into the nearby fire. The light of it danced in his blue eyes. You watched for a minute or so, with a dozen different queries jostling for lead at the tip of your tongue. None of them seemed likely to not set Ron off, though, so you simply swallowed each one, flipped the paper over so that you would no longer have to see Harry’s sheepish smile, and returned to your schoolwork. 

“I just don’t get it,” Ron said loudly, after a few minutes passed. 

You looked up from your parchment to see if he looked more friendly. He did not. 

“Don’t get what?” you wanted to know. 

“How you can _stand_ all this!” Before you could ask for clarification, he went on: “It makes me sick. He just goes on and on about how _sad_ he is that his parents are dead, and how _proud_ they’d be of him, and how _hard_ his life is. I mean, they were your parents, too! Why do they supposedly only care about _him_?” 

You reached out a tentative hand and placed it on his upper arm. When he did not shake it off, you swallowed and said, “Ron, I don’t even remember them.” 

“Well, neither does he.” 

Ron’s ears burned a vibrant red as he stared at you. You squirmed in your seat. In some ways, he was right—not about Harry, exactly, but about the way people forgot the Potters had _two_ children to miss—but how could you _say_ that without betraying the only family you really had? 

“He’s my brother.” 

“So?” That question had no answer. You’d long given up trying to exist outside of Harry’s shadow. Ron ran an agitated hand through his hair, then said in a defeated sort of voice said, “I just thought…I dunno, that out of everyone, _you’d_ understand.” 

At the risk of sounding like one of Dudley’s many scratched CDs when he tried to play them back, you kept your mouth shut instead of asking what it was you were supposed to understand. You often suspected (and Hermione agreed) that sometimes the boys didn’t need someone to talk _to_ , they needed someone to talk _at_. Maybe this was one of those times for Ron. Sure enough, he soon continued with your prompting: 

“When you have a family like…like _we_ have, it’s impossible to live up to them. _You_ can’t do anything to break the mold. Everyone expects great things of you, because they all did great things, but then no one cares when you _do_ manage something, because it’s already been done. I’ve got six siblings. Just _Percy_ ’s bad enough, but you…” 

“I’ve got Harry Potter,” you finished. 

“Right,” he said miserably. 

He looked so sad, staring down into his lap like that. Hermione was probably right about Harry and Ron really missing each other. Heck, you missed all three of your friends, and _you_ were still on speaking terms with each of them. But if you tried to talk Ron into seeing that, _you’d_ be the one eating breakfast all alone in the morning, and you couldn’t go back to having no one to talk to but your twin brother. You’d rather be a muggle than ever have to deal with that again. 

“Harry and I…It’s different. We shared a broom closet until we were _ten_. I can’t just turn my back on him,” you said. 

“So the glory-seeking doesn’t bother you at all?” 

“No, it bothers me. It’d be nice if Harry could just have year of peace. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut, though.” 

“Why?” 

You shrugged. “I’m not the Boy-Who-Lived. I’m only the Girl-Who-Happened-To-Be-There.” 

“And you’re _okay_ with that?” 

“It hurts,” you confessed, “but if Voldemort tried to kill _me_ first, I might have joined my parents. Who knows? Besides, Harry doesn’t _like_ being famous.” 

“Sure he doesn’t,” Ron said with a snort. 

“He doesn’t! Ron, can I ask you something?” 

He grunted. 

“Would you hate me as much as Harry if _my_ name came out of the Goblet of Fire?” 

“What are you on about?” 

“If it was me in the tournament instead of Harry—” 

“So you two _did_ put your names in together?” 

“No.” You still didn’t know for sure about Harry, but if he told you he hadn’t, then surely he hadn’t. Even if the two of you didn’t do _everything_ together at Hogwarts, he would still want you to be in on something like _that_. Right? “But if we did, and _I_ was in the tournament and Rita Skeeter kept writing about how wonderful _I_ was, would you hate me, too?” 

To your great surprise, Ron’s answer was an immediate, “No.” 

Something deep within you unclenched. You hadn’t realized just how afraid you’d been of losing Ron over this stupid fight until the weight in your stomach disappeared. The relief was so great that your head spun. When you spoke again, your voice was a little hoarse: 

“Really?” 

“’Course,” said Ron. “Why would that make me hate you?” 

“It made you hate Harry.” 

“You’re different.” 

“How so?” you asked, laughing. Ron did not answer at once. In fact, he looked a little uncomfortable. Turning his face back toward the fire, he shifted around in his seat. Then—still refusing to look at you—he said: 

“You just are.” 

A slow smile spread across your face. Harry was still angry; Ron was still upset; and you were still hurt. Your group of friends was nowhere near making up. Knowing that Ron did not (and could not) hate you cheered you up considerably all the same. 

You shut your History of Magic textbook with a loud _snap_ that caused him to jump. He twisted to glower at you, but you simply smirked in return. 

“I’m never going to finish this without Hermione,” you said. “Fancy a few rounds of chess?” 

“I’ll go get my board.” 

He sped off toward his dormitory without a second glance. You settled back in your chair to wait. A warm feeling pooled in your chest, and you wondered if Hermione was correct about another thing: that you _liked_ Ron. If the butterflies in your stomach as you saw him coming back were any indication, you absolutely did. You wouldn’t say anything to him, though. Not yet. Maybe once Harry and Ron stopped fighting. For that night, all you wanted to do was spend a few quiet hours with one of your best friends, and the rest of the world that ignored you locked tightly out of your little bubble.


	28. Torn [Severus Snape]

Severus Snape dragged himself into the Slytherin common room feeling more wretched than he had in his entire life. Considering what a wretched life he lived, that meant that he felt very awful indeed. Only just that afternoon, he’d had one shining moment in knowing he had passed his Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. with flying colors. Now he was once again small and pathetic, and the cause was no different than usual: James Potter, bane of his existence. 

“Finally back from your groveling, I see.” 

He stiffened where he stood right in front of the entrance. It was so late at night (or rather, so early in the morning) that he had not expected anyone else in his house to be awake. When he turned toward the sitting area, he saw a young woman on one of the sofas. A sea of notes and books surrounded her. 

“[L Name],” he said coldly. “What are you doing up?” 

You closed the open book in your lap with loud _snap_. “Waiting for you.” 

“Why, in Merlin’s name—” 

“How did it go?” you interrupted. 

After the day he’d had, Severus was not in the mood to play with you. Doing so was frustrating enough during daylight hours. He wanted to go to bed, wake up, and find that the events following his written exam were just a horrible, study-induced dream. But that could not happen until he’d gotten away from your company, and he knew from past experience that you would not _let_ go until you were done with him. 

“How did _what_ go?” he asked through gritted teeth. 

“Your chat with your filthy little mudblood friend. Did she forgive you?” 

“Lily Evans is _not_ a mudblood!” 

Rolling your eyes at his temper, you settled further back against the cushion behind you. “ _Please_. You called her one yourself this afternoon. Are you turning into a hypocrite, Severus?” 

“No!” 

You gazed at him through half-lidded eyes. Only the ignited tip of your wand resting on the sofa arm lit the room. It made everything look harder and grayer than usual, including your features. 

“So?” you asked. “Did she?” 

“Did who what?” 

“Did Evans forgive you or not?” 

He met your eyes. They were, as usual, unfathomable. Why you cared, he didn’t know. He had had a king’s welcome over supper that night. The prodigal Prince, finally overcoming the mudblood’s spell. No one _else_ in Slytherin cared whether or not Severus had ruined his chances with the love his life. They _celebrated_ it—and he doubted that anyone but you had noticed that he’d slipped away from the revelry long before someone brought in the pudding. 

“No,” he said. “She didn’t.” 

To his surprise, you didn’t have anything snide to reply with. You said nothing at all for a long time. After several minutes passed, he turned to leave. Perhaps he would get lucky and die in his sleep. Potter would be ten times worse to deal with come the morning. Anything to avoid that would be an answered prayer. 

“She doesn’t know a good thing when she sees it, does she?” you said before he could disappear into the boys’ dormitories. 

Severus paused. “What are you talking about?” 

“Well, you sat in front of her common room all night just to talk to her. No self-respecting Slytherin would normally bother for a someone of her lineage.” 

“I _told_ you—she’s not—don’t you—” 

“Severus, we’re in the same house. We’re in the same year. I know who your real friends are, and they certainly aren’t a bitch who would side with Potter over you.” 

There was enough venom in your voice to settle him somewhat. People existed that did not worship the ground that Potter walked on. But still, how could he trust a girl that tormented him just as often as that little gang of Gryffindors? At least _them_ he had respite from during the nights. _You_ were always there, no matter what time of day it was. He sneered. 

“Oh? And who are these mysterious friends of mine?” he asked. 

“Mulciber. Avery. That lot. And me,” you added, almost as an afterthought. 

He laughed. “Since when have you and I been friends?” 

“Honestly, _you’re_ supposed to be the smart one?” He inhaled sharply, but had no chance to retort before you stood and walked toward him. “Just because I think you can do better than a Gryffindor with mud for brains…” 

You were far, far too close for his liking. Any thoughts of defending Lily left him. Severus backed away from your predatory smile with his hand wrapped tightly around the wand inside his robes. His back met the wall after only a few paces, but even raising his wand did not halt your advance. 

“What do you want?” he spat. 

“Are you going to jinx me? Couldn’t get at Potter and Black, so I’ll do just fine?” 

“What. Do you want,” he repeated. 

With one graceful movement, you pressed his wand away. The word _levicorpus_ nearly entered his mind—then he felt a warm pressure on his mouth. You were kissing him. Your lips pressed firmly against his. So startled was he that he made no move to prevent you from slipping your tongue inside his mouth. _That_ shocked him back, though. He shoved you away, heart pounding. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, now breathless. 

You tossed your hair over your shoulder as you straightened back up. Clearly, you saw nothing wrong with that sort of behavior. Severus, meanwhile, shook with anger. 

“Showing you what I want,” you answered coolly. 

“How _dare_ you!” 

“How dare I what?” 

“Touch me, you filthy—” 

“My blood is purer than yours—and infinitely more than Lily Evans’.” 

“You—” 

“I’ve made my feelings clear. The quaffle is in your pitch now.” You turned to gather your study materials. “The way I see it, you have two options. One, you can go crawling back to her like a pathetic glumbumble, or…” 

Silence fell. Severus felt his heart still hammering. Go back. He could go back to Lily, beg for mercy from the girl he’d always loved. Surely she would understand. She had to. He would simply refuse to leave until she did. Of course, during all that time, he would be easy pickings for Potter and his gang… 

“Or what?” he asked. 

You smiled. “Or you become the Slytherin you were always meant to be. I haven’t toyed with you all these years for fun, you know. _I_ know you can be so much more than some muggle-born’s play thing. But even I won’t wait around forever.” 

Your eyes met. Severus could see no lie in your expression. That kiss had not been a distraction, nor were you making fun of him. Lily had spurned him, and now you stood before him, telling him to _make_ something of himself, a something that you claimed to have seen since the very beginning. He swallowed. 

His lack of answer did not seem to bother you. You placed your final book at the top of your stack, then headed for the entrance to the girls’ dormitories. “Goodnight, Severus. I’ll see you tomorrow for the Ancient Runes exam. Unless, of course, you’ve been expelled for stalking.” 

With those words, you left him standing all alone. He stared after you long after you’d gone. The ghost of your kiss seemed to linger on his lips. For a brief moment, he looked once more at the exit. Lily remained in Gryffindor Tower, completely oblivious to how awful Severus felt. Probably she was fretting over Potter’s feelings that very minute. As he marched to his own bed, Severus wondered if you were right after all. Maybe it _was_ time to fully embrace the Slytherin ideal. At least that way, Lily could not hurt him anymore—and he’d have someone that wanted him, as apparently you had for some time. 

But when he fell asleep that night, it was not to a reimagining of that kiss. No, it was Lily’s scowl he saw, and Potter’s derisive laughter that he heard. Your gleaming eyes and flashing smile never once appeared.


	29. Tears [Fred Weasley]

For almost an entire month (if not longer), hardly anyone at Hogwarts spoke of anything other than the upcoming Yule Ball. “What color are your dress robes?” girls whispered to each other during classes. “Who did Dumbledore get to play the music?” also came up frequently, as well as, “Do you think Krum _really_ already asked someone?” and “Why won’t Harry just ask me already?” Now that the night had arrived, you were ashamed to admit that you, too, had been caught up in all the pre-dance excitement. As it turned out, the Yule Ball was the _worst_ thing to happen to you at school, and yes, that included the all the time you’d spent petrified a couple years prior. 

You’d never felt as awful as you did standing alone in the stupid robes you’d spent hours getting just perfect, in the stupid makeup that took you just as long to put on, and the hair you’d agonized over for weeks. Sitting down alone at a table did not make you feel any better. That was how you wound up _under_ a table on the far side of the Great Hall. At least the cloth covering it hid your view of the dance floor and yourself from the prying eyes that had seen your dismissal. 

“Now, who decided to start a round of hide and go seek without consulting me? Seems a little rude, don’t you think?” 

Stiffening, you looked over to see a familiar boy with vivid red hair clambering over to you through the tablecloth. You quickly tried to wipe your tears away, but your voice still cracked when you said: 

“Fred? What are _you_ doing here?” 

“Joining in,” he replied. “Though I doubt anyone will find us, since you didn’t tell anyone you were playing. Is this how the muggles do it? Seems a tad counter-intuitive.” 

“No. I mean…shouldn’t you be with Angelina?” 

Fred stared at you. 

“Your _date_?” you prompted him. 

“Angelina isn’t my date,” he said. 

Had you had a stroke? Were you having some terrible dream? Why was everyone around you acting so strangely? “I was _right there_ when you asked her to the dance.” 

“Oh, that.” Fred waved one hand as he scooted closer to you. “That was Angelina’s idea. She wanted to go with Katie, but her parents wouldn’t approve. She got a few pictures and dances in with me, just enough to get everyone off her back, and now they’re out snogging in the garden, and _I’m_ a free agent.” 

This was so much new information to take in that you could only goggle at him. Apparently seeing nothing strange about the entire situation himself, he looked calmly back at you. Several minutes passed. Then Fred inched just a little bit closer and said: 

“So, are you going to tell me why you’re crying?” 

“I’m not—” 

Gently, he touched your cheek. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were wet and blackened by your eyeliner. Your face burned worse than ever. After all the other indignities you had suffered that night, was it _really_ necessary for Fred of all people to see you like that? You scrubbed at your cheeks as you shook your head. 

“It’s nothing, Fred. Really,” you said. 

His expression turned uncharacteristically ugly. “Let me guess. ‘Nothing’ is out dancing with one of the girls from Beauxbatons.” 

_He_ knew? Shame rose prickly and hot up your back. Bad enough that your Yule Ball date had _ditched_ you for another girl an hour into the dance. Bad enough that that date was your boyfriend of four months. All that you could handle, or so you thought. But if Fred knew about your very public breakup, then _everyone_ knew, and that would be much more difficult to get a handle on. 

You let out an enormous wail and buried your face in your hands. It no longer mattered if anyone heard you over the music, or if anyone else saw you cry. Once the ball was over and the smaller tables disappeared, everyone would see you for what you were anyway: an enormous loser who couldn’t keep her own boyfriend’s attention when there were pretty French girls to woo. 

Something tapped your shoulder, but you ignored it. Then it happened again. With a great sniff, you looked up to see Fred awkwardly patting you there. 

“Don’t cry over that prat, [Name],” he said. “He’s not worth it.” 

Your lower lip trembled violently . “Then—then—that means _I’m_ not worth it!” 

“What? How did you come to _that_ conclusion?” 

“Because if _he_ isn’t worth anything, what does that make _me_? The girl he _dumped_?” 

“Not a gigantic bastard?” Fred suggested, looking quite alarmed. 

“That other girl doesn’t seem to think _he's_ one anyway.” 

“Well, then she’s an idiot, isn’t she? And no,” he was quick to add, “you’re not an idiot for going out with him first. _He_ didn’t tell his last girlfriend to bugger off right before kissing you in front of the entire school.” 

Fred always had a knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking. Unfortunately, his assurance to the contrary in regards to your IQ was not enough to prevent you from thinking you were an idiot anyway. You should have seen this coming. There were signs. But you were just _so_ stupid that you’d ignored them until Gareth left you like that. This time tomorrow, everyone would _know_ how stupid you were, too. Gareth and his new girlfriend could have a nice laugh about it. Thank goodness it was still the holidays so you could stay in bed until school started back up and people had better things to talk about. By then, you’d have starved to death, so what would you care? 

Hiccuping, you rose as much as you could from where you sat. “Thanks for the comfort, Fred. I think I’ll slip out while they’re all distracted.” 

You didn’t get far before you felt his hand latch around your wrist. “Wait,” he said. 

“Fred, I _really_ want to leave before anyone else sees me like this.” 

“Like what? You look amazing.” 

You raised your eyebrows. “I’ve cried all my makeup off.” 

“So fix it. You put too much effort into this to just leave!” 

“You expect me to go out there and sit around until the ball is over?” 

“No, I expect you to go back out there and show him you don’t give a damn that he moved on.” 

“And how am I supposed to do that?” you asked. 

“Dance with me.” 

Another beat of silence followed his offer. Then you gave a weak laugh. 

“Thanks, Fred.” 

“What? You thought I was joking?” 

“You _were_ joking.” 

“Pardon me, but I think _I_ know the rare occasions I choose to be serious. This is one of them,” said Fred. 

He didn’t know what he was asking. He didn’t know that you’d been nursing a crush on him since the previous school year. He didn’t know that you’d been working to get rid of your feelings since Gareth asked you out, and even harder since you’d heard Fred ask Angelina to the ball. Dancing with him would only bring all your emotions back to the surface. You tried to be on your way again, but he wouldn’t let go. In such close quarters it was next to impossible to get at your wand through those blasted dress robes, too! 

“What about Angelina?” you asked at last. 

“What about her?” he wanted to know. 

“She’s your _date_!” 

“I _told_ you that was just for show.” 

“But no one _else_ knows that. What will they think if they see you dancing with me?” 

“That I was lucky enough to go to the Yule Ball with _two_ of the most attractive girls in Gryffindor?” 

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks burned again—pleasantly, in that case. “Fred, please be serious.” 

“I am,” he insisted, and reached his free hand to smooth a lock of ruined hair from your face. “Don’t let that git ruin your night. If anyone makes a big deal out of it, Angelina and I will fake a row, and next big shindig she can take George as her smokescreen instead. Okay?” 

“Well…” You _had_ put an awful lot of work into doing your hair and face, and you didn’t even want to _think_ of how much of your savings you’d spent on your dress robes. All those weeks of anticipation—did you _really_ want to ruin them all over a boy you’d only _hoped_ you were in love with? 

Fred seemed to sense your weakness. He squeezed your hand. “Honestly, you’ll be doing me a favor. It’s very boring, sitting around and pretending to wait for Angelina to come back with our drinks. If _you_ don’t step in to entertain me, George and I will have to come up with something ourselves.” 

“All right, all right!” You chuckled. “Merlin forbid. I’ll dance with you. But no making fun of my hair.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Once he’d finally released you, he lifted the tablecloth for you to crawl out from under the table. You did your best to ignore the stares of those seated at that table while Fred followed you. True to his word, he said nothing about your appearance even though you spent the rest of the evening in his company. In fact, he said nothing at all about the entire situation. Probably he was trying to keep _your_ mind off the happy couple a single dance floor away—which he managed to do. At least he did, until you spotted Gareth and his new girlfriend strolling out into the garden…only for the former to turn into a large canary in an explosion of feathers. 

As it turned out, all your dreams for the Yule Ball _did_ come true, just not exactly as you expected.


	30. Damaged [Neville Longbottom]

Over his six years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Neville’s face had endured a lot of grief. There was the time in first year when Hermione Granger used a full body-bind curse on him and left him to fall face-first onto the common room floor. There was the time he got into an ill-advised fist fight with Crabbe and Goyle during a quidditch match. _Then_ there was the time he went off to the Ministry of Magic with Harry Potter and got himself attacked by a hoard of Death Eaters. On each of those occasions, he had looked pretty awful afterward. All of them paled in comparison to what he looked like that night only a few months into your last year. 

“Merlin, Neville. Did they replace your head with a slab of meat down there?” 

He’d gotten detention—again. You saw him over supper and he was fine. Now it was nearly midnight, and he’d staggered back into the common room covered in blood. Much as you wanted to shriek in horror, you knew that doing so would only get you caught out of bed past curfew, so you instead settled on pressing him into one of the overstuffed armchairs and continuing your fretting under your breath. 

“What did they do? String you up like one of the others?” 

Neville nodded grimly. The bowl of murtlap essence you’d prepared shook when you gasped. Luckily, you were able to stop it falling off the chair arm and onto the floor with a quick grab. 

“Why would they do that?” you whispered. “You’re a pure-blood.” 

“Don’t think they care much anymore. When I refused to torture the muggle-borns in class, they said if I wanted to sympathize with filth, they’d treat me like filth,” he said. 

“Bastards.” 

“We knew what we were getting into when the school year started.” 

He was right. Once the news came out that Professor Snape would be heading the school, the direction things would take could not have been clearer. You gingerly applied the essence to the cuts on Neville’s face with a rag and replied: 

“I didn’t think it would get _this_ bad.” 

“It’s only going to get worse.” 

The laugh that escaped your mouth sounded hysterical even to your own ears. “I don’t see how.” 

“So far they’ve been targeting me because I won’t stand for what they’re doing. But they’re getting braver, and they’re running out of muggle-borns. Sooner or later, they’ll come after all of us. They’ll come after _you_.” 

You stopped your ministrations and slowly brought your eyes up to his. No, it would not be long. Your hearing to decide your blood status had only barely gone your way. _That_ only happened because Neville’s grandmother had insisted—for Neville’s sake, she said—on teaching you the entire Longbottom family tree. Insisted. Not offered. It was a shoddy façade nonetheless, and it wouldn’t stand up to much further scrutiny. 

“I’m not afraid,” you said. 

“I am.” 

His answer drew you up short. Neville, frightened? Since when? From the day you had met him on the train that first day of your first year, he’d always been the most recklessly brave person you’d ever known, if perhaps not by everyone else’s definition of “brave.” 

“Why are you scared?” you asked softly. 

“Because I know what they’ll do to you.” 

“I can handle it, Neville.” 

“Maybe _I_ can’t.” 

Your gentle prodding came to an abrupt stop as you continued to look at his battered face. His expression was unusually serious. Frowning, you put down your damp cloth. 

“What are you on about?” 

“They’ll torture you. Hell, they’ll probably make me do it,” he said. 

“But you won’t.” 

“So they’ll have Crabbe do it instead.” He shook his head, then winced at the pain of moving. “You don’t know what the _Cruciatus_ is like, [Name]. It’s…it’s…” 

While he struggled to think of a word bad enough to describe the pain he himself had been through that day, you placed your hand on top of his that sat atop the armrest. Neville was shaking. You interlaced your fingers with his and that seemed to calm him a little. Several minutes still passed before he able to continue: 

“I just…keep thinking about my mum and dad,” he finally mumbled. “How I would feel if the Carrows hurt you and you couldn’t recognize me anymore.” 

You squeezed his hand more tightly. “That could never happen.” 

“That’s probably what they thought, too, before it happened.” 

“Oh, Neville.” When you released his hand, it was only to place both of yours on the sides of his face. You kissed him carefully. It wouldn’t do to knock his wounds around more. If only you could have promised him that no amount of torture could ever wipe your mind clean of him. You’d been best friends since first year and dating since fifth. But you’d met his parents. Neville was right. 

“I worry about you,” he said, once you’d pulled away. 

“ _I’m_ not the one putting a target spell on my head each and every day.” No smile occurred at your attempt to lighten the mood, so you moved on. “I worry about you, too. A lot.” 

“So what do we do?” 

“Same thing we’ve always done. Stick together. Somehow we’ll make it out okay.” 

He didn’t look convinced. “I’m not sure you’ll make it out okay with _me_.” 

“Well, you do attract a lot of attention. But you’re being so brave. You’ve got to give me a chance to be brave, too.” 

“They’ll figure out you’re not a pure-blood,” Neville warned. 

“I don’t care. Like you said, they’re going to come for all of us, except maybe the Slytherins. I won’t stand by while they hurt people like me anymore—or while they hurt my boyfriend. If you get hurt, I get hurt. No more of this one-sided waiting.” 

You knew he wouldn’t like it. It wasn’t all that far into the school year, and there was a long road ahead to survive with no promises of freedom at the end. But he was just as likely to get _crucio_ -ed into insanity as you were—more, with this reckless streak of his. No longer would you stay in the tower, hoping against hope that he would return. The defiant gaze you shot him said as much. In the end, he sighed rather than argued. 

“You’re right. Just like always,” he said. 

“Not always,” you admitted. “I really thought this murtlap essence would help, but you look just as bad. Maybe I should try to sneak you up to the Hospital Wing tomorrow…” 

“Madam Pomfrey can’t help. She’s not allowed. Besides, we’ll have better things to do with our time come tomorrow.” 

“Like what?” you asked, furrowing your brow. 

Neville smiled around his split lips. “Grab your old fake galleon. I think it’s time to revive the DA.” 

You grinned right back at him before scurrying off to do just that. Things were only going to get worse, Neville was right about that. Taking his rebellion to the next level only assured it. At least you’d be right there with him from then on, though. That would be enough to get you through—because it had to be.


	31. Tumbling [Cedric Diggory]

The sun had climbed high into the sky by the time the Hufflepuff quidditch team dismounted their brooms one autumn Saturday morning. A cool breeze that threatened to turn wet and hostile blew through the pitch, ruffling the uniforms of all the players. In the center of all that black and yellow stood a handsome boy who smiled when everyone turned to him. 

“Great flying today, everybody. Keep this up, and we’re _sure_ to cream Gryffindor next week!” 

His fellow Hufflepuffs cheered, then all trooped off to the locker rooms. Several clapped him on the back as they passed. 

“Thanks, Ced.” 

“See you at dinner.” 

“Won’t let you down, Cap.” 

Cedric Diggory did not join his teammates in the showers. He stood alone outside until each of them left. After that, he turned to wave at the lone figure sitting in the stands. You had sank so low as to be nearly invisible, but still he spotted you. His smile grew when you refused to move. 

“Come on,” he called. “It’s time!” 

You knew him well enough to know that he was not about to give you up as a bad job. That was why you’d shown up to watch his practice as planned. If you’d stayed in bed, you had no doubt that Cedric would have sparkled one of your roommates into dragging you outside anyway. The boy was determined. Slowly, you rose to your feet and walked down to meet him on the grass. 

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” he said when he noticed your trepidation. 

You eyed the broom in his hand knowingly. “I beg to differ.” 

“This thing doesn’t even have teeth.” 

“Not funny, Cedric.” 

“You have to admit, it kind of is. You’re more afraid of this broom than the stuff Professor Hagrid’s been showing us in class!” 

“I’ve never been hurt by a thestral,” you grumbled. 

“Come on.” He nudged you with the handle. “Do you really want to be the only one in our year that hasn’t passed flying lessons?” 

“It’s worked for me so far!” 

He shot you a look that was as close to exasperated as Cedric could come. “You know Professor Sprout said you have to meet the basic requirements before the end of this year.” 

“Can’t you just _tell_ her that I did?” 

“That would be lying.” 

“So?” Suddenly, your trainers were easier to look at than his face. You stared at them as though in doing so you might bore him into going away. It didn’t work. Crouching so that you _had_ to look at him, he said: 

“Basic requirement is just not falling off the broom for ten minutes.” 

“I’ve never come close to that.” 

“Which is why I’m here to _help_ you.” 

“You’re here because Professor Sprout _told_ you to help me,” you said. 

“Well, that,” he held your hand tightly in his, “and because I can’t let my girlfriend flunk out of fifth year.” 

It took a lot of effort, but finally you forced yourself to look him in the eye. Any argument you might have offered died upon your lips. Cedric wore that stupid, breathtaking smile of his that always made you weak at the knees, and you knew you couldn’t fight him any longer. 

“Fine,” you muttered. 

“Good girl.” 

With a final kiss to the top of your head, he stepped back. He let go of his broom to allow it to float horizontally in front of you. You gulped. The last time you’d been on a broom had been during your second year, and _that_ had ended so disastrously that even Madam Hooch had given up on you ever getting airborne. 

“Go on,” Cedric urged. 

You had no choice. If you refused, you’d have to deal with his disappointed face for the rest of the day. So, sighing, you got on board. 

“When I fall to my death,” you said, “you can’t have any of my things.” 

“Not even your signed copy of _Magical Me_?” 

“Not even that.” 

The ground seemed to spin beneath you even with your feet firmly upon it. Any higher and you’d surely pass out. Only sitting there would be just as bad, though, because Cedric wasn’t going to let you leave until you at least made an _attempt_. Besides, you really didn’t want to get held back because you never finished your flying lessons. 

You inhaled shakily, which did nothing to settle your nerves. After wrapping your sweaty hands around the broom’s shaft, you screwed your eyes shut and kicked off. 

“I’m going to die!” you screamed as soon as your feet left the earth. 

“No, you’re not,” said Cedric. “You’re doing great. Keep going. You’ve got be level with the highest hoop before the timer starts.” 

You swore. Professor Sprout had been trying to be _kind_ when she’d asked your boyfriend to tutor you in flying. _Cedric_ had been trying to be kind when he’d waited until the quidditch pitch would be empty for a few hours before beginning your trial. Sailing up and up and up, you couldn’t think of either of them as “kind.” _Kind_ would have been allowing you to sign a waiver promising to never get on another broom so you could just get on with your life. Good grief, wasn’t that what portkeys and floo powder were _for_? 

“There you go! You can stop.” 

Cedric’s voice sounded very far away. Slowly, you peeled up your eyelids. You floated nearly level with the tallest hoop, and what seemed like miles below stood Cedric. Your palms sweated worse than ever. A fall from there could break your neck. 

“Okay,” he called, “now you need to move a little.” 

You shook your head. Somehow, he was still able to see that tiny motion from so far away. 

“Just a little, [Name].” 

“No!” 

“If we stay out too late, the dementors will come get us. Remember what Professor Dumbledore said at the Welcoming Feast?” 

Distinctly. Now not only were you being threatened with being kept back a year, but also with having your soul sucked out. You whimpered, but did as Cedric directed you to. His broom moved forward a few millimeters beneath you before you stopped and clutched its handle for all you were worth. 

“You’ve got to move for the whole ten minutes or it won’t count,” he yelled. 

Of course. _Now_ you remembered why you still hadn’t passed your flying exam. He’d made the test seem so easy: just stay on the broom! Too bad that wasn’t the _only_ requirement in reality. Cedric must have known that once he got you up there, you’d do just about anything to get him to let you come back down. 

So you pushed on, wobbling every which way. You _had_ to keep your eyes open—unless you wanted to hit another quidditch hoop or something, that was. The breeze blew up against your face. A shudder ran through your entire body. Below, Cedric called up encouragements you didn’t have the courage to return with insults of your own. Just when you thought you might have enough of a Wronski Feint in you to knock him on his bum, he finally said: 

“Thirty seconds left!” 

Almost done. You sighed with relief and started your descent. The broom handle tipped forward ever so slightly…but even slightly was enough to make your worst nightmare come true. Your sweaty palms slid right off the end of the shaft. For half of one of those remaining seconds, you sat as though frozen in the chilly air as you tried to get your grip back. Then you tumbled headfirst toward the ground. 

Cedric’s figure grew closer at an alarming rate. Screaming, you covered your eyes so that you would not have to watch the moment of your early demise. Over said screaming, you thought you heard him say something, but you didn’t hear what. You only hoped that he’d feel terrible over his role in getting you killed, and for nothing more important than a test grade to boot. 

“[Name]. You can stop shrieking like a banshee now.” 

His voice sounded so near that you did so immediately. Upon opening your eyes, you saw his handsome face above you. You gasped, twisted, and fell again, but that time the ground was only a few feet away. Cedric crouched beside you. 

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I cast a spell to slow your fall. Were you hurt after all?” 

You shook your head as you clambered to your feet. Hovering there beside him was that treacherous broom. He must have summoned it after making sure you wouldn't smash right into him. That the possible instrument of your death had also survived didn’t bring you much cheer. 

“I’m _not_ getting back on that thing,” you said, and Cedric laughed. 

“You don’t have to. You made it. Ten minutes exactly, if you count your air time on the way down.” 

“Thank Merlin. Can we go now? A near-death experience makes a girl hungry.” 

“You sure you don’t want to have another go at it, now you’ve got the hang of things?” 

You glared at his teasing smile. “I’d rather kiss a dementor,” you announced, turning on your heel to stalk off to the Castle for lunch. He caught up to you not long after, and snatched your hand in his as soon as he did. Any remaining anger you felt with him evaporated in the face of his single question: 

“You didn’t really think I’d let you fall to your death, did you?” 

“No,” you said. “That’s the only reason I got on the stupid broom at all. But you’re still never getting me _on_ one again. Never ever.” 

He smiled. “Sounds fair.” 

The two of you walked into the Great Hall hand in hand. Your heart continued to race for much of the following meal. Still, at least you wouldn’t have to worry about staying back a year come the fall. You could stay with Cedric, the man you knew would always protect you, even from yourself. That was worth ten minutes on a stupid broom—but you’d never admit so to him. Not even when he spent the rest of the afternoon bragging to his team about your success.


	32. Eyes [Voldemort]

Azkaban was inarguably the loneliest place on earth. Out in the middle of the ocean, there was no escape once one was locked inside. Cells kept prisoners far away from all the others, save for the endless screams that still erupted from the fresher meat. Dementors prowled the walls to sap the will to live from every damned soul within them. It was a perfect storm of isolation...but none of that was what made Azkaban hell on earth for _you_. 

For just under fourteen years, you rotted there. Your greatest mistakes in life paraded again and again through your head. Of them all, of course, you regretted not being present. It should have been his greatest moment of triumph. Instead it had twisted into his downfall, and you had not been present. He died so far from your embrace. 

Bellatrix spent a lot of time shrieking that he wasn’t dead at first. _She_ was there because she believed. _She_ would one day receive the honor accorded to her faith. _She_ would be valued above all. You comforted yourself in knowing _you_ did not suffer because of delusions. Azakaban held you because you had no regrets. 

You should have listened to her. _Now_ you felt some regret. 

Freedom felt strange after so long with no one to speak to—not that there had been much talking done during or after the breakout either. Even the air felt different back on the mainland, and the lights just a little too bright. Hours had passed and still you did not quite understand why things had changed. The dementors had revolted, that much you knew, but why and how you’d arrived at Malfoy Manor afterward, you did not. 

Alone you stood outside the ballroom. One of your old guards floated nearby, but appeared to desire your emotions no longer. Or maybe it simply did _not_ desire what you felt just then. Whatever it was, you could not name it. The rest of the Death Eaters locked up with you had long since disappeared inside that same room. Narcissa had not wasted any breath explaining to you why only you must wait outside. That gave you the first flash of hope you’d experienced in years, and more fear than you’d felt during those years as well. 

The doors beside you opened. Your heart launched itself into your throat. 

“Enter,” hissed a high-pitched voice. 

That you did. The room beyond was dim, lit only by candlelight flickering in snake-shaped brackets down the walls. All along your path stood motionless figures in familiar hoods and masks. You probably could have named them all, but you spared them no further attention. A man sat on the high-backed chair against the back wall, and you had eyes for none but him. 

You threw yourself onto the floor when you were only a few away. “M-My lord,” you croaked. It had not taken long for you to stop your screaming in Azkaban, and your voice was rusted from lack of use. Hopefully this would not anger him, nor the tattered rags that had passed for your clothing since his disappearance. 

“Rise, [Name].” 

Despite your trembling, you did as you were commanded. Slowly, you lifted your head until you could fill your eyes with him. Him. Your Lord. Back from the dead. He raised one pale hand without a word, and you approached to take it. The long, beautiful fingers were just as you remembered them. Tears dropped onto his flesh as you kissed the back of his hand repeatedly. You wept. He lived, and he had rescued you from an eternity without him. 

When he pulled away from you, you could not help the noise of protest that came from your mouth. You wanted nothing more than to cling to him, to explore every inch of his resurrected body. Undoubtedly Bellatrix had already tried. But though what remained of your soul cried out to be close to him, you said nothing more and remained exactly where he had left you. 

“I see that you did not believe that my return was possible,” he said. A sensation like that of brushing past a stunning spell ran all the way up your spine. You knew that you could not lie. He would know. He always knew. 

“I was foolish,” you answered. 

He did not argue the point. “And when you felt your Mark burn last June?” 

“I—I thought it a dream. It’s happened before. The dementors, they get inside your head, they give you what you want only to tear it away from you again. If—If I had known—!” 

“You would have come to my side at once?” 

“Yes,” you breathed. 

“You would have left Azkaban? You? With no wand and no reason to believe it was truly me?” 

“Yes. Anything. Anything, my lord, to repent of my lack of belief.” 

“Then you will have your chance now.” 

“My lord!” One of the watching Death Eaters broke rank. They pulled their mask away, and you were not surprised to see that it was Bellatrix striding up to you. Azakaban would not have _improved_ her behavior. Her husband, however, remained in his place. 

“My lord,” she said again. “Surely you do not mean to _forgive_ this woman!” 

Both of you glared at each other. Bellatrix had never liked nor respected you. She was right, though. Forgiveness was the last thing you deserved. Your master regarded her in silence for nearly a minute as he twirled his wand idly in one hand. 

“You dare to instruct me on what I may or may not do with my followers?” he asked. Most of those watching would know better than to argue when he used that tone. Bellatrix did not. 

“She did not believe! Your _loyal_ followers went to Azkaban because we tried to find you. We alone desired your return. _She_ went quietly when the Ministry came calling. Why should you forgive weakness such as that?” 

The weight of her accusations bore down upon you so that keeping your head up became nearly impossible. His beautiful red eyes slid to your face, causing you to hold your breath. There was nothing left now but to throw yourself upon his mercy. At least if there was none, you would die by _his_ hand and not that of the filthy Ministry or Order—or, worse, Bellatrix’s. 

“She does not lie,” he told you. It was not a question. 

“No, my lord.” 

“Why would you allow yourself to be led away like some mudblood sheep to the slaughter?” 

You swallowed. “I am not proud of what I’ve done. I only thought that it did not matter if you were gone. Alive or dead, I remained loyal to you. I would not denounce your name, nor the acts I did at your command. To spend the rest of my life in prison would be infinitely better than to spend it among those that celebrated your demise.” 

Silence rang in the ballroom. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Bellatrix’s mouth twist into a sneer. And why should she not smile? Your excuses sounded weak to your own ears; you could not imagine what they sounded like to him. Still you stood straight as you waited for that final flash of green, or the pain that you so rightly deserved. 

“I trust you will not doubt me again,” was all he said. 

You fell to the floor for a second time. “No, my lord. Never, my lord. I only wish to serve you from now on, to make reparations—” 

He rose, cutting you off. You sat up to see him looking down at you. Though he did not speak, you knew what he wanted, and climbed to your feet once more. 

“You will come with me. We have much to discuss. Lucius,” another cloaked figure stepped out of line, “show us to my quarters. And Bella…” 

She said nothing. 

“Do not think to question my actions ever again. Next time I will not be so merciful.” 

Her stark white, angry expression would not leave your memory. You could hardly avoid smirking at her in your turn. Luckily, there was not much time for your expression to linger, as Lucius left to lead the way and you had to scurry after him to keep pace with your master. You’d been away from him for far too long, and that you would always regret. Now that you were back, you intended to stay right where he wanted you as long as he wanted you there. If ever you returned to Azkaban’s lonely vigil, you would not have to watch the same mistake as before replay every night in your dreams.


	33. Night [Sirius Black]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got asked by someone to write a continuation of "Love."

Joining the Order of the Phoenix lost much of its appeal upon your second go at it. Oh, you knew the organization and its goals were important. When you had word from Dumbledore that he was badly in need of recruits this time around, you hadn’t thought once about declining his request. If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back—and you _did_ believe that he was back—you couldn’t simply sit back and watch his rise to power. Yet the more often you visited the Orders headquarters, the more you regretted your choice to take up the fight again. There were a few things you wish you _had_ thought to do first, even if the end result wound up the same. 

You staggered into #12 Grimmauld Place in the dead of night for the fourth time in a week. The front hall _seemed_ empty, and for that you were grateful. Your plan to take all the assignments that ended when everyone else was asleep appeared to be working. No one wanted to hear a report on your guard duty experience at two in the morning—not that there was anything to report. No one outside of known Unspeakables had approached your post outside the Department of Mysteries that night. 

All you needed to do now was leave Mad-Eye’s invisibility cloak where Molly would find it and pass it on to its next borrower come morning. That was how you liked it: in and out without any fuss. Unfortunately, you couldn’t just leave the cloak right there in the entryway. Molly and Arthur had brought with them a host of children, and you happened to know at least two or three of them wouldn’t mind owning such a garment, even if they didn’t obtain it through legal means. You would have to find a more obvious place to stash it. 

The easiest place would be the kitchen. It didn’t require your finding someone else in the maze of a house, and Molly was sure to be there in a matter of hours. Your steps down the stairs were as small and quiet as you could make them. Any noise caused you to freeze in place. Grimmauld Place made a lot of noises in its old age, but none of them sounded near enough to voices to keep you stopped for long. When you finally made it to your destination, you let out a sigh of relief over not being caught. 

“ _[Name]_?” 

Your relief had been premature. The kitchen, it turned out, _was_ occupied, and by the worst person imaginable: Sirius Black. You had done everything in your power to avoid running into him, from skipping important meetings, to mailing all your relevant intel directly to Dumbledore. Now you had to see Sirius face to face with no one—no Remus, no Molly, no Tonks—to act as a buffer. 

He was half out of his chair before you realized you hadn’t responded to him. How stupid you must have looked, standing there in the middle of the room with your mouth open and a silver cloak wadded up in your arms. You couldn’t move even as he approached you in the dim light cast by the candles on the table. Sirius paused only a few steps away from you. 

“It’s…been so long,” he said. 

Well, he wasn’t wrong about that. You hadn’t seen him in person since the night you found out brothers had died. A forced smile pushed up the corners of your mouth. 

“Hello, Sirius.” 

“I didn’t expect to see you. Remus said you’ve been in and out, but…” 

“Oh, well. I’ve been around. Can never stay for long.” 

You both stared at one another. This was the first time he had seen you at all in fifteen years, you realized. At least _you'd_ had newspaper clippings and wanted posters. Remus would not have had any pictures of you to share, nor would anyone else. What did Sirius see? Age took its toll on everyone, but _you_ had not spent time in prison. He might have looked marginally healthier than he had in those same posters; you must still have looked healthier than he did. 

“I just came to drop off Mad-Eye’s cloak,” you said in a rush. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll let you get back to—” 

“You didn’t. Interrupt me. I can’t sleep. You know how I get.” 

“Don’t have a convenient warm body to sleep next to?” You regretted the jab as soon as it left your mouth. This was not your good-humored boyfriend you were talking to. This was a man who had spent over a decade in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. To his credit, Sirius smiled at your poor excuse for a joke, though you noticed that the smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Something like that,” he said lightly. “I’ve been wanting to contact you for years. How are you?” 

“Busy. With work and all.” 

“Remus tells me you’re a curse breaker now.” 

“That’s right. And…yourself?” you asked, more out of obligation than any desire to prolong this already painful conversation. 

His face twisted into a scowl. “Absolutely nothing. Dumbledore’s got me trapped in here because he’s convinced Peter’s told everyone about my animagus form by now. Mostly I’ve been cleaning.” 

Not well, you noted. His old home—that you’d never been inside even when you were dating, since by then Sirius had been disowned—looked just as dilapidated as it had since you first had the honor of meeting his mother’s painting. Only the kitchen showed signs of improvement, and to that you credited Molly’s handiwork. She would need a clean surface to cook. But this time you held yourself back from insulting him. 

“Well, you’ve got all the Weasley children to help you now,” you said, “and Harry should be coming along soon.” 

“I suppose. You’ll be part of his guard?” 

“That’s the plan.” 

A silence fell louder than any you’d experienced previously. Sirius’ eyes roved hungrily across your face, which forced you to look more closely at him in turn. You didn’t like what you saw. Gone was the wild, arrogant, beautiful boy you’d fallen for in your teens. Gone as well was the serious, war-worn, quieter man he’d been forced to grow into. In his place stood a person you could never truly know. 

You couldn’t take it a moment longer. Simply entering this building had been a mistake. All those long years of convincing yourself that Sirius was where he belonged and you were lucky to be rid of him crashed down around your ears. It was not your fault that he was so much changed, but that you of all people had simply stood by and let it happen seemed so glaring in that kitchen that you wondered how you weren’t blinded by that truth. 

“I ought to go. I’ve got work in the morning, and the Goblins don’t care _what_ cause you were up working for all night, you’d better show up ready—” 

His hand gripped your wrist and pulled you against him. The memory of your last night together, the night he had told you that he broke up with you to avoid the pain of losing you, the night he’d kissed you senseless next to your bookshelf and said he wanted you back and damn all that pain, shone vividly in your mind’s eye. You tried to pull free, but Sirius’ grip was too tight. 

“Let me go, Sirius,” you said as you twisted you face away from him. 

“[Name], you have to know. Surely you realize that I still—” 

“Don’t say it!” 

You held up your left hand as you interrupted him, then sucked in a sharp breath as his gray eyes fell directly on your ring finger. Though you hastily dropped that hand, you knew he had seen what you had been so desperate to avoid telling him. His face went blank for nearly a whole minute before he released you. 

“You’re married,” he said hoarsely. It was not a question. 

“Yes.” 

“For how long?” 

“Twelve years.” 

His gaze slid away from you, something for which you were grateful as it kept him from seeing the tears spring to your eyes. You _knew_ you had nothing to be ashamed of. Life and people moved on, even when it didn’t feel like they should. Even if doing so wasn’t fair. Very little ever was. And yet…and yet… 

“Remus didn’t mention…I haven’t seen anyone around that someone said was your husband. Have I?” 

The lump in your throat required a hard gulp before it disappeared. “He’s a muggle.” 

“He is? Still alive?” 

“Of course he’s still alive, Sirius.” You couldn’t help that that sounded like a snap, but you probably could have prevented what you said next: “And if you think I’ll let you do anything to him—” 

“Do what?” As he turned to look at you, you saw his cheeks turn red. “Kill him? Do you really think that I would kill a man just to be with you? Perhaps you haven’t heard the news, but I’m no murderer.” 

That wasn’t exactly what you meant. You weren’t surprised that was what Sirius heard. There was no saving face; all you could do was let the shame flood your system. “I know that,” you said quietly. 

“Do you? Because you settled down with this man awfully fast after I left.” 

“Because I _didn’t_ know you weren’t a murderer then! Even if I didn’t think so, you were in prison. Did you expect me to wait on the chance that someday they might release you?” 

“I would have done for you.” 

“Thank you very much. But I was completely alone, you know. No Order. No family. No you. For two years before I met John I didn’t have _anyone_. I have a _family_ now. _Children_. I don’t regret doing what I did, even if you didn’t kill Lily and James and Peter.” 

How much of that was true, even you couldn’t say. You did love John. You did love your children. Your oldest had just started at Hogwarts the previous year. Leaving all of that for Sirius—a man you had not so much as sent an owl to in over a decade—was out of the question. _And yet_. Ever since you’d joined the Order and Remus told you what had really happened that terrible October night, you wondered just where you would have been if you’d _believed_ in the man you’d claimed to love, if you’d waited like Sirius had clearly wanted. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. 

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he awkwardly brushed his palm across your shoulder and took a step past you toward the door. 

“Don’t be. I’m…glad you were able to be happy. I’m glad you _are_ happy. You don’t spend your whole life loving a girl and hate when she’s happy.” Very quickly—so quickly you couldn't be sure later that you didn’t imagine it—he kissed you on the cheek and walked upstairs without another word. 

That was the last time in your life that you would see Sirius Black. He avoided you just as thoroughly as you avoided him from that point on. Before you knew it, he had joined your brothers in the afterlife. It turned out that he was wrong all along, too: Not being with him when he passed didn’t make his passing hurt any less.


	34. Sleep [Lily Luna Potter]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not proud of how boringly generic this one is. :\

It was true what they said about third year at Hogwarts. You were not yet preparing for O.W.L.s, and your N.E.W.T.s were so far away as to not even appear on the far horizon. But with the addition of your two extracurricular classes, the first term of the year had entirely wiped you out. Christmas break started the following day. Since that would hardly be any break at all considering your family’s hectic schedule, you’d been looking forward to having a full night of sleep before you boarded the Hogwarts Express in the morning. 

“[Name]. Pssst. _[Name]._ ” 

Fate had other plans. The giggling girls with whom you shared your dormitory had only just fallen asleep themselves when _someone_ roused you from your slumber. You recognized that someone’s voice. That someone did not belong in your room. Your eyes popped open at once to find a pretty redhead perched at the end of your bed. 

“Lily? What are you doing here?” you hissed. 

She smiled at your obvious annoyance. “I have a surprise for you.” 

“It’s the middle of the night! How did you even get into the common room?” 

“Like it’s _that_ hard to guess your password. _Parselmouth_? You guys always have the most obvious ones. And I already knew where the entrance was because of the map.” 

You had forgotten about Lily’s map, and her uncanny ability to get places where she wasn’t supposed to be. Growing up with a brother like James Potter, you shouldn’t have been surprised. Potters could get away with things like that. Your family was not nearly so distinguished. Her presence could land you in very big trouble with your head of house. 

“What if someone _sees_ you?” 

“They won’t.” She hopped off your mattress and shot you an expectant sort of look. When you didn’t move, her smile widened. “I nicked James’ cloak from his dormitory while he was in Defense Against the Dark Arts today. Now are you coming or not?” 

You knew Lily well enough to know she wouldn’t let you be until you gave her what she wanted. Even if you were dead tired and being forced to spend your entire holiday schmoozing with the upper crust of wizarding society, she wouldn’t care. She’d probably just sit there until your roommates woke up to discover just who you’d been spending all your spare time with. 

With great reluctance, you got out of bed and allowed her to throw the invisibility cloak over you both. She looked absolutely delighted. Thankfully, she had to turn around to lead the way out into the hall. Otherwise your head probably would have spun too hard to walk a straight line after her. That sort of smile on Lily’s face always had that effect on you. Better that she didn’t figure that out; she’d never let you hear the end of it. 

The two of you passed in silence into the common room, where only Lily’s brother and his friend remained, both asleep on the couch. Then you were out in the empty corridors with no one the wiser that an unwanted outsider had encroached your house’s defenses. Lily said nothing more. She was excited, though, that much you could tell. Her pace quickened as you marched through the exquisitely decorated castle. 

At one point, you thought she must have been lost. She moved back and forth in a single hall several times with you following dutifully in her tracks. Before you could ask her what that was all about or if she really just wanted to see how stupid she could make you look, Lily whipped off the cloak with a triumphant cry, grabbed your hand, and tugged you toward a door on the nearby wall that most definitely had _not_ been there when you’d passed it earlier. 

“Lily, what—” 

She interrupted you with a squeal as she entered the room. Inside lay an enormous winter wonderland. Snow fell from the ceiling to land in sparkling mounds upon the floor. An icy pond sat in the back, surrounded by tremendous pines sparkling with tinsel and baubles. But it wasn’t cold. You could not see your breath, and the pajamas you had worn to bed remained perfectly comfortable when you stepped in after Lily. 

“I wasn’t sure this would work,” she cried, racing ahead to form a line of bare-footprints behind her. “Dad said last time he saw this place, it got burned with fiendfyre. Even _James_ hasn’t tried to get in. Oh, it’s _perfect_!” 

“What _is_ this place?” you wondered aloud. 

“It’s the Room of Requirement!” 

“The Room of _what_?” 

“It’s a secret place my parents used to use for training. Now, come on! There’s another set of ice skates over here, and I bet they’re just your size.” 

No doubt about it: Lily had you wrapped around her little finger. Instead of questioning her further, you walked over to a bench she’d found to pull on a second pair of skates. You weren’t too surprised to find they _were_ just your size. She hovered nearby in her own pair until the second you’d laced yours up. Then she pulled you onto the pond with her. 

Time seemed to blur while you skated around, giggling and slipping and cheering each other on. Lily was the only person who could bring that side of you out into the open. Only Lily. Your relationship with her was neither public nor typical, but in moments like that, you knew you loved her, even if the two of you _were_ only about fourteen. Love was not enough to keep you going indefinitely, unfortunately. Soon you were yawning right in her face. 

“I’m sorry, Lil,” you said after you did so for a fifth time. “I really should try to get _some_ sleep.” 

The look she gave you was pitying rather than crestfallen. “You really are going to be busy _all_ holiday?” 

“Mum and Dad have gatherings planned almost every single night.” 

“I’m glad we did this tonight, then. I wanted to give you your Christmas present early, since we won’t get to see each other much until next term.” 

“Your family _is_ invited to one of our parties,” you reminded her. 

“It won’t be the same. We won’t be _together_.” 

That was true. Neither your family nor hers knew the two of you were seeing each other. Nobody did. No one was supposed to know you were even _friends_. Revealing that you were more than that at some big Ministry of Magic Christmas shindig wouldn’t do anyone any favors. 

“Maybe next year we can tell them,” you said weakly. 

Lily shrugged. “We’ll get there when we get there. But don’t you want your present?” 

“Present? You aren’t carrying any packages.” 

“Look up,” she said, her lips twisting up into a smug smile. 

You did, and found a strand of glistening mistletoe lowering toward you through the still-falling flakes of snow. “What _is_ this place?’ you tried to ask, but Lily interrupted you for the second time that night. This time, she did so by pressing her lips right to yours. 

It wasn’t much of a kiss. You were only fourteen, after all, and both too shocked and inexperienced to think of kissing her back. When she leaned away, she was beaming. 

“I love you, [Name]. So don’t you go kissing anybody else while we’re apart.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said with your head still reeling. Only when Lily leaned in again did you come back to yourself. 

“Let me walk you home. Wouldn’t want you to miss any more of your beauty sleep.” 

So you both took of your ice skates, huddled back under James’ cloak, and set off again. She looked entirely too pleased with herself when you bid her goodbye at the entrance to your dormitory. To your great surprise, the clock next to your bed read 5:00. You’d spent hours with her without realizing, and now had only an hour left to sleep. You knew as you settled back in that that didn’t matter. Though you hadn’t said so yourself, you loved Lily, too. A night without any sleep at all was more than worth just a little extra time spent in her company.


	35. Dreams [George Weasley]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of "Memory," as per request.

“I can’t believe you bullied me into taking time off work just to stuff me in this getup, Gin. I thought we were friends.” 

You stood in front of a mirror in one of the Burrow’s several (long-empty) bedrooms on a fine summer morning to find a horrendous vision in place of your reflection. Mere hours remained before her wedding, and Ginny Weasley had only _just_ handed over your bridesmaid robes. They looked so awful on you that you almost thought she was playing a prank on you. Then she said: 

“It’s not _that_ bad.” 

“Not that bad?” You shifted on the spot, trying to find an angle from which you could believe her words. “I look like a bleached lethifold! Why can’t I have the same outfit as Luna?” 

“That _is_ the same outfit as Luna’s.” 

“Why does _she_ look so good in it?” 

Ginny rolled her eyes before she met your gaze in the mirror. “Because _she_ didn’t avoid coming to any of her fittings, _and_ she’s been here since Thursday.” 

Warmth crept into your cheeks, but you said nothing. What excuse did you have? You _had_ avoided the fittings—and the rehearsal dinner and the bridal shower and everything else it was your duty as a bridesmaid to attend. Ginny knew that as well as you did. If she got upset, she was well within her rights to. Being Ginny, however, she seemed more amused at your expense than angry with your behavior. She shook her head and stepped over toward the door with her own dress robes rustling as she went. 

“Mum can fix the worst of it. I’ll see if I can find her without running into Harry. _Don’t_ you dare leave this room before I come back.” 

Without waiting for you to agree, she disappeared down the narrow staircase outside the room. You turned back to your reflection with a sigh. If you weren’t such a coward, Ginny wouldn’t have been running errands on her own wedding day. If you weren’t such a coward, then her warning would have been necessary as well. As it was, you had no interest in leaving the bedroom. Just being inside the Weasley home was nerve-wracking enough. The idea of having to attend the service was downright _frightening._

A knock at the door followed not long after. Expecting Mrs. Weasley to bustle over to you, you spun to greet her—only for someone else entirely to waltz right inside. 

“Harry, I don’t know what you’re playing at in here, but Ginny says—” George came to an abrupt halt the second he spotted you. You couldn’t blame him, for you had frozen so completely that you might have been petrified. The effect of seeing him like that was so strong that you couldn’t even speak. 

“You’re not Harry,” he said after an awkward pause. “Are you?” 

You shook your head. 

“I thought not. I’ve seen so many people polyjuiced to be him over the years that I’m a bit of an expert on what the _real_ one looks like.” 

This was _exactly_ what you’d hoped to avoid by shirking your duties. All that dodging—you thought Ginny _understood_ , but apparently not. You pushed past George without a word, gripped the doorknob just behind him, and yanked. It didn’t budge, so you pulled out your wand. 

“ _Alohomora!_ ” you cried. When you tried the handle a second time, nothing had changed. 

“Awfully bold of you to assume Ginny wouldn’t think of that.” 

You sucked in a breath as you whirled on the spot. The baggy clothes hanging off your shoulders threatened to slide right off from the momentum of such a gesture. Before you could so much as open your mouth to tell him where he could shove his observations, he lifted his hands and said: 

“Don’t look at me. This wasn’t _my_ idea. I’m just as much a victim here as you are.” 

George Weasley was a lot of things, but a liar had never been one of them. You didn’t think two years would have changed that. Hardly anything else about him had. He looked almost exactly the same as he had throughout your school years, though definitely not exactly the same. There was a sadness in his eyes that had not faded over time. Perhaps it never would. 

“You know, I don’t think they’re going to let us out until we talk,” he said pointedly. 

Heat moved up the back of your neck for the second time in so many minutes. Just how long had you been staring at him? George certainly wasn’t staring at you! 

“They’ll have to,” you argued. “The ceremony starts in a couple of hours. Your mum still has to fix my dress robes!” 

“Ginny doesn’t make much fuss. _She_ probably won’t mind if neither of us show up.” 

He wasn’t wrong. After attending Bill, Percy, _and_ Ron’s weddings, Ginny could just as easily have gone without all the bells and whistles in place for that day. Mrs. Weasley had been the one to insist on her only daughter having a proper service. A couple of missing party members—or one present wearing a frilly sack—wouldn’t bother Ginny one bit. 

“Talk about _what_?” you asked, now semi-hysterical. You didn’t _want_ to talk to George. You didn’t know _how_. 

His hand gripped your shoulder in such a familiar fashion that it brought tears to your eyes. Thank Merlin you had enough wits about you to wrench free of George’s grasp—though not enough to avoid collapsing into an ugly puddle of fabric there on the floor. You tried without much luck to convince yourself you still looked more dignified that way than hyperventilating the way you had been before. 

To your great distress, however, George followed you to the ground. You looked anywhere but at his face. Two years. You’d managed _two years_ without running into him once. Now all of a sudden, he wouldn’t leave you alone. 

“I know what we can talk about,” he said. 

There was nothing else for it. You _had_ to bite, unless you wanted to be trapped in that room until _Victoire_ got married. “What’s that?” 

“How awful I was the last time we saw each other.” 

“ _What_?” 

“What do you _mean_ , what?” 

“What are you _talking_ about?” you demanded. “ _I_ was the one that was horrible to _you_.” 

George let out an incredulous laugh. “That’s not what happened at all.” 

“I told you to stop mourning your brother.” 

“And I told you my pain was worse than yours.” 

Well, he _had_ done that. As the memory of that day—the oppressive smell of liquor, the hot sun streaming into the flat, the sound of George vomiting into the loo—rushed through your mind, you stared blankly at the wall. You weren’t going to cry. Not on Ginny’s wedding day. Even if she _had_ wasted all your efforts to avoid so much as _seeing_ your ex-boyfriend. 

“I’m sorry,” came his soft voice. 

“Eh?” 

You wrenched your gaze back to the present to find George still next to you. He hadn’t moved away at all. If anything, he had scooted _closer_. The smallest motion from you would cause your elbows to brush. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “You were right. I needed to go to Saint Mungo’s. I…wasn’t right in the head. 

“You’d just lost your closest friend. Anyone would have been crushed in your position. I should have—” 

“No, _I_ should have. I should have known you were hurting, too. I should have made time for your grief.” 

For a moment, all you could do was eye George in wonder. He wouldn’t be the same man you’d known and dated at Hogwarts. That was impossible. You knew he would be more serious now, less apt to joke around without his partner crime at his side. But an apology? After you broke up with him so suddenly and stormed out of his life? 

“Where is this coming from?” you asked. 

“It’s always been there. I wanted to tell you then. The minute you left, I wanted to run after you, but I thought, given the circumstances…” 

“That I’d jinx you first and ask questions later.” He nodded. “I would have. But you never tried to find me after. You never even sent me an owl.” 

He smiled a smile you would have called sheepish, had it been on anyone else’s face. “Can you blame me for being ashamed?” 

“I suppose not. I never tried to owl you either.” 

“Why would you? I was so…nasty.” 

“I forgave you a long time ago.” 

“Really?” George lifted a single red brow. “Then why did you skip all of Ginny’s things?” 

“Because…because I didn’t think that you would forgive _me_.” 

“How in Merlin’s name could I not forgive the love of my life?” he asked impatiently. 

A strange rushing sound filled your ears. You could _feel_ the blood pooling in your cheeks. _George_ sat there, cool as a flobberworm, while _you_ could only open and close your mouth repeatedly. 

“Love?” you squeaked at last. 

He nodded again. 

“You…you _can’t_. Ginny _told_ me. You’re dating Angelina Johnson. You two met up at one of Kingsley’s grief sessions.” 

“That was _ages_ ago.” He laughed a familiar, somewhat mocking laugh at your expense. It sounded too nice for you to chastise him for it. “Gin’s really kept you in the dark, hasn’t she? Angelina and I didn’t date long. It was too weird. I think we both half-expected I was going to morph into Fred any second. But why would it matter to you anyway, if I _was_ seeing Angelina?” 

His devilish grin made it clear that he already knew. They _all_ already knew, but he was going to make you say it out loud anyway. The mortification was enough to make you consider not confessing at all—but not very seriously and not for very long. The secret you had carried with you across a dozen different countries burned to be released. 

“Because I’m still in love with you,” you said, “and I don’t want to see you with another person because of all the horrible things I said.” 

Of all the actions you expected George to take after that, none of them were for him to kiss you the way he did. He cupped your face between his palms and pressed his lips right to yours, like it hadn’t been two years since you’d seen one another, like you weren’t wearing the stupidest outfit his sister could imagine. One thing still bothered you, though, even once he let you go: 

“Are you telling me Ginny tricked me into talking to you just to get us back together?” 

“I'm willing to bet it wasn’t just her in on the trick,” George said, and as he did, the door opened to allow Mrs. Weasley to come bursting inside. You caught a glimpse of four other heads of red hair before the people they belonged to hastily apparated away. There was no chance to go after any of the Weasley siblings before their mother was upon you. Her eyes were wet. You barely had time to take that in before she swept you up into a warm hug. 

“Oh, [Name], we _have_ missed you,” she cried. “It’s so good to have you as a part of the family again. What _are_ you wearing?” she added, pulling away. 

George snickered as you looked down at the shapeless mass in confusion. “My dress. Ginny sent you to make adjustments to it.” 

“Don’t be silly. How could that be? It doesn’t look a thing like Luna’s.” 

“Why am I not surprised,” you muttered darkly. 

Mrs. Weasley did not appear to notice your tone. She marched over to the room’s tiny closet, rummaged for all of ten seconds inside it, then turned back with a _normal_ -sized set of dress robes. 

“Here we are. Now put this on so I can make any necessary adjustments. The ceremony starts in in just under two hours, you realize. George—” 

“I’m leaving. Wouldn’t want to see any of your naughty bits yet, [Name]. Save that for after the reception.” 

“George!” 

But he only grinned and winked at you before he left. His mother could not apologize enough for his crudeness, no matter how often you told her such apologies were unnecessary. George was George and he still loved you—not to mention that you didn’t have to spend the rest of the evening in that hideous gown. By the time you followed Luna up the aisle and saw George looking your way, you were ready to give the whole day up as a dying dream. 

It was not. When you woke up the next morning, George was still there—and the morning after that, and the morning after that, and the morning after that. You’d both lost enough time and loved ones to know there wasn’t any such thing as a happily ever after…but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be any happiness for the two of you at all.


	36. Haunt [Draco Malfoy]

The halls of Hogwarts rang with a strange sort of emptiness the morning after that final battle. Bright sunlight swept inside through windows and craters alike. All the bodies—regardless of their life’s allegiance—had long been removed to the Great Hall for identification and mourning. That was where all the living remained as well, except for the solitary young man that stood staring blankly at the remaining wreckage strewn before him. 

Draco Malfoy knew that he did not have much time. Shock lay thick over all of Hogwarts’ inhabitants, but it would not last forever. Soon _someone_ —perhaps Potter, perhaps not—would remember that three among their grieving number did not belong. The Dark Lord was gone; the threat to the Malfoy family was not. Draco had no delusions that he would not be taken away along with his parents to whatever crude prison might be erected without the dementors to guard Azkaban. The Dark Mark burned into his arm would make certain of _that_. 

“[Name].” 

No one answered the single word that fell from his pale lips. Nothing stirred at hearing it either. And why should they? You were dead. Draco had seen your body in that very corridor only a year ago. The darkness then made it difficult to tell for sure, and he’d been moving so quickly that he had hoped, despite Aunt Bella’s gleeful assurance to the contrary, that he had imagined it. Perhaps he had imagined what he had seen that very morning, too. 

“[Name]!” he called again, now moving down the hall. “[Name], come out. It’s me.” 

Even when his foot collided with a chunk of the wall that had caved in during the fight, he did not stop. Here. You had to be _here_ , and he’d be damned if he went anywhere else before he talked to you. He would pace for hours if he had to. Harry Potter himself would not be able to stop him. Draco would not leave until he knew the truth for sure. 

“[Name], please.” 

If anyone were to spot him, what would they think? Draco Malfoy, the youngest Death Eater to ever be inducted, the orchestrator of Albus Dumbledore’s death, talking—no, _pleading_ —with thin air? Malfoys did _not_ go mad, and they did _not_ plead. Not until that day. 

“[Name], I—” 

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.” 

A girl’s transparent head pushed out of the thick wood door to Draco’s left. The rest of her equally transparent body soon followed. 

“Myrtle,” Draco said. Why had he not thought of Myrtle? She was his _friend_. _She_ was dead. She would understand. Had she not always assured him that she understood? 

“Hello, Draco,” she said, with none of the previous sympathy that he had relied upon. 

“Where is [Name]? Have you seen her?” he asked. 

“So _you’re_ not listening to me anymore either, I see. I told you, she doesn’t want to talk to you. Neither do I, come to think of it.” 

Myrtle began to drift away in the direction Draco had come from. He watched her go, torn. True, in life Moaning Myrtle had been a muggle-born, and she had spent all her time since her death being a pathetic nuisance to all who dared enter her bathroom. He counted himself lucky that he had missed the worst of her behavior on account of not using that bathroom by default. Still, she _had_ been his sole confidant for one of the worst years of his life. He could not just let her leave. 

“Wait!” he said, and made the mistake of trying to make her do so. His hand contracted right through her arm. She did pause—but didn’t seem to care all that she’d made him feel chill to the bone. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” 

“Since when do you call me Malfoy?” 

“Since I found out that all your sniveling was over _murder_.” 

“I didn’t _want_ to do it.” 

“But you still tried.” Her glasses flashed. “Did you think it would be a laugh, making me feel sorry for you? Stupid Myrtle, being kind to a murderer? Well, _Mister_ Malfoy, _I’m_ not laughing, and neither is [Name].” 

“I didn’t, I swear. But—” 

“Goodbye,” Myrtle said. When she took off the second time, she did so at a greater speed. Once she rounded the corner, his only chance to speak to you would vanish along with her. A year spent stuck inside his home had not prepared Draco for the kind of running necessary to keep up with someone who didn’t need to use their legs, unfortunately, and he could not keep up no matter how hard he tried. 

“I’m sorry!” he shouted after her. 

The shameful confession rebounded back to him a thousand times in the empty hallway. His face burned. Slowly, Myrtle drifted back toward him, her eyes narrowed with intense dislike behind the thick lenses of her glasses. 

“Why should I believe you?” she asked. 

“Because I loved her.” 

After considering him for another eternity, she finally nodded. Then she disappeared through the closest wall once more. Draco held his breath for one minute. Two. Perhaps she had been lying to him. Perhaps you couldn’t be convinced. Perhaps he had been mistaken. The Grey Lady was also a young, beautiful dead woman. A trick of the light during the celebration of the Dark Lord's defeat, and here he was embarrassing himself _and_ his family by mooning after a girl he hadn’t seen for ages. He had just made up his mind to return to the Great Hall before someone saw him in this humiliating position when a second ghost appeared to him. 

“Draco,” you said, so coldly that an even worse chill than before slid up his spine. 

All he could do was stare at you, like a stupid house-elf. It was as though Draco were staring at a photograph of you, so unaltered was your appearance from the one he knew—save for the transparency and lack of color, obviously. So Aunt Bella had been right. You _had_ died the night he let the Death Eaters inside Hogwarts. He would not have been surprised if she had cast the Killing Curse herself. 

“I _assume_ you didn’t summon me just to gape,” you snapped. 

Had he truly been silent for so long? “No.” 

“Then why don’t you spit it out? I’ve got all the time in the world, and I _still_ don’t want to spend another _minute_ of it in _your_ company.” 

“Don’t be like that.” 

“I have the right to ‘be like that.’ Really, Draco? All that change of heart talk was rubbish. You _used_ me.” 

“I didn’t,” he said. “I promise.” 

“So you _didn’t_ try to kill Professor Dumbledore?” 

“He _made_ me—” 

“And you _didn’t_ willingly take the Dark Mark?” 

“If I refused—” 

“ _And_ you didn’t let a bunch of your Death Eater pals inside the castle and get me killed?” 

Guilt bubbled like overcooked potion in his chest. A year of the sensation had tortured him. When he had spied you with the other Hogwarts ghosts that morning, Draco had thought he might be able to rid himself of it for good. He could apologize. He could explain. He could be forgiven. The look on your face made it clear that none of that would happen. Swallowing, he tried to speak again: 

“You don’t understand.” 

“I understand that Harry was right about you all along. You’re nothing but a lowdown, blood-purity fanatic. I _never_ should have trusted you.” 

Draco’s lips curled. Potter. Of course. Even in your death, he came between you. Perfect saintly Potter, your friend, your _idol_ , the reason Draco could never really tell you how he felt because the idea of Potter knowing would have been enough to kill him. But Draco pushed the thought away. He would consider Potter at a later date. 

“I didn’t _mean_ any of it. I didn’t _do_ it. _I_ didn’t kill Dumbledore. Professor Snape did.” 

“Do you think I care?” you demanded. “So you didn’t finish the job. You intended to.” 

He could tell you were about to go the same way as Myrtle: out of his life forever. This was his last chance. Who knew where you would go while he was locked away? And how would he survive with this horrible feeling in his bones? 

“I didn’t _intend_ for you to die,” he said softly. This had the opposite effect that he had hoped for: your glare turned harder than ever. 

“But anybody else—any muggle-born, any friend of Harry’s, any witch or wizard that would fight You-Know-Who that _wasn’t_ me— _they_ could die? I don’t want to hear it!” you said when he opened his mouth to protest further. To his shock, silvery tears gathered in your eyes. “I’m not anything special. You just wanted me to think you thought I was.” 

His tongue felt too thick to move inside his mouth. It was not often that Draco found himself speechless, rarer still was when he was forced to admit that someone else was right. All of this _had_ started less than genuinely. You were supposed to be his line to Potter and his pals. Nothing more. Just like all his other plans, that, too, had turned to ruin. 

“You _are_ special.” 

Something flared in your ghostly eyes. His heart leaped, then fell as you turned away from him. “If you thought so, you’d have known I wouldn’t stand back while Hogwarts was invaded.” 

“I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry, [Name].” As undignified as crying was, hot tears spilled down his cheeks. “I never meant it. If I could take it all back, I would. You have to forgive me. I-I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t do anything. I just keep thinking about what I did to you.” 

“Good. I hope my death haunts you. I hope my death haunts you for the rest of your miserable, cowardly life, because _I_ certainly am not going to do it myself! 

“But—” 

“I don’t _care_. I don’t care what excuses you have, and I _don’t_ forgive you. Go away, Draco, and don’t come back. If I see you in this castle again, I’ll have Peeves drop a chandelier on your head.” 

Then you flew through the ceiling without giving him another opportunity to speak. He stared at the place you had vanished, hoping against hope that you would change your mind and return to him. You did not. Draco was forced to return to the Great Hall with the guilt still gnawing at his core. The sensation would not ebb, no matter what he did, no matter how his parents embraced him, no matter how long the celebration went on. With the fall of the Dark Lord, he should have felt relief in knowing that his long nightmare was finally over. Instead, all he felt was dread. You’d get your wish. Even without ever appearing to him again, you'd haunt Draco for the rest of his days.


	37. Despair [Remus Lupin]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has occurred to me since writing this that I don't really understand how the werewolf registry would work. I mean, the Ministry already knew he was a werewolf pre-Hogwarts, but then no one seemed to know but Snape...oh, well. Despite the obvious errors present, I hope you will enjoy this in some fashion.

The final exit of Hogwarts’ seventh year students rarely saw less enthusiasm than it did in 1978. Few of the freshly-minted fully-qualified witches and wizards boarded the waiting train with burgeoning careers or plans for their futures. A handful of Slytherins remained unaffected by the dour mood—several had ministry positions waiting for them, or claimed that they did—but the rest remained stiff and pale and lost. There _was_ a war going on, after all, and now there would be no castle walls to keep out the worst of it. 

Remus Lupin stood waiting at the Hogsmeade platform with his three closest friends. None of _them_ were behaving quite right either. Try as they might have to play at high spirits, James and Sirius clearly didn’t have their hearts in it, and if everyone else was pale, Peter was white as a ghost. Strange, Remus reflected, that he was the _least_ dejected-looking of this group. Then again, _he_ had been mentally preparing to leave school with no prospects much longer than they had. 

“So, Remus, will you be coming directly home with James and me? We never did finish making our arrangements.” Sirius’ voice startled Remus out of his thoughts. He looked from one of his friends’ faces to another, but could not work out what conversation it was that he had missed. 

“Arrangements for what?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“For my wedding to Lily, of course!” said James. “It’s in under a month, and I _know_ you haven’t really got another place to go until then. Come stay with us.” 

“I’m not interested in accepting any charity—” 

“Charity!” 

“What are you talking about, mate?” Sirius chimed in. “Peter’s coming, too, and _he_ could just as well stay with his mother. Talk about charity!” 

“Hey! You know if I stay with her she’ll never let me outside in the present climate!” Peter said indignantly. 

Sirius grinned. “Maybe _we_ shouldn’t let you out either. You might not make it out there ‘in the present climate’ without someone to protect you, Wormtail.” 

“I’m a fully-capable wizard myself. I don’t need you and James babysitting me anymore! Right, Remus?” 

James turned to Remus, effectively blocking out Peter and Sirius’ continued argument as they stepped inside the Hogwarts Express at last. He gazed at Remus imploringly and unflinchingly. The two wizards bickering a few feet away might as well have not been there at all. This was a shame for Remus, as he much rather would have listened to that than try to evade James more. 

“Come and stay with me. Please. The house is going to be too empty without Mum and Dad.” 

Such a statement drew Remus up short. It wasn’t often that any of them—James especially—brought up the somewhat recent passing of Mr. and Mrs. Potter. To anyone that wasn’t a Marauder or Lily Evans, James probably appeared entirely unaffected by this tragedy. Remus was one of those few that knew better, and the pity he felt for his close friend was _almost_ enough to change his mind... _almost_ being the key word. 

“James, you know very well that I can’t,” he said. “It wouldn’t be safe for you all.” 

“I’ve been told _that_ before. We’ll work out something again. Simple as that.” 

“How? There is no more Whomping Willow. No more Forbidden Forest. If I get loose there, who knows where I’ll end up or who I’ll hurt? It’s time I went my own way.” 

The expression on James’ face made it quite clear that he wanted to argue the point. Seven years had seen Remus become very skilled at knowing exactly what his friends were thinking when the subject of his “furry little problem” arose. To his surprise, however, James then sighed and clapped a hand to his shoulder. 

“All right, then. Have it your way. But keep us posted, will you? Got to know where you’re staying so the owl can get you your invitation. And [Name]’s, of course.” 

“[Name]’s? Why are you and Lily inviting [Name]?” 

James’ eyebrows rose to high that they nearly vanished into his tousled hair. “She’s your plus one, isn’t she?” 

“I don’t believe so,” Remus said carefully. “We haven’t discussed it.” 

“Remus, you _didn’t_!” Either Sirius had won his argument with Peter or lost interest in it entirely. He stared at Remus as though he’d grown a second head again. His cheeks growing warm, Remus did his best to avoid Sirius’ gaze. Of course, _he_ would be the one to realize what Remus was getting at. If Remus had known Sirius was paying any sort of attention to the conversation, he wouldn’t have said anything about you to James at all. 

“Not yet. But it has to be done.” 

“No, it hasn’t.” 

“Yes, it does.” 

“Why?” 

“You know why.” 

“I know why you _think_ it has to be done, but I don’t follow why you’re still going to _do_ it.” 

After he removed his glasses, Remus rubbed at his eyes. This reaction was exactly why he had not spoken of his plans regarding you to any of his friends. Leaving Hogwarts marked the end of an era for all of them, but most of all for him. His years of pretending to be the same as his peers were over. He wasn’t surprised that none of them had considered this; as far as the Marauders were concerned, Remus _was_ the same as his peers. Now, as they made their way down the train corridor in search of a free compartment, was not the ideal time to remind Sirius of his mistake, but the sooner they were all enlightened, the better. 

“Not everyone feels the same way about—” 

“Remus!” 

All four boys paused to look about. Remus’ heart sank. Racing toward their group was the very last person he wanted see. Sirius, however, grinned at you and caught Remus’ eye. 

“Perfect timing,” he said. 

You shot him a curious look. And why not? Sirius and you had never been on the best of terms. It had taken several months for him to finally accept that, while he’d never think you were _good_ enough to date his best friend, you were who his best friend wanted to date. This sudden joy was awfully suspicious, but Sirius ignored Remus glare to continue smiling. 

“What did you say?” you asked. 

“Nothing. Fancy sitting with us on the trip, [Name]? Only we’re still looking for a compartment.” 

“No, thank you. I’d rather spend some time alone with Remus, if you lot can spare him.” 

“They can spare me,” Remus said quickly, before any of his friends could get ideas. “Let’s go.” 

Just like that, you quit frowning at Sirius, grabbed Remus’ hand, and tugged him the way he had just come from. He did his best not to look behind himself. This was not enough to prevent Sirius from calling his name before the two of you disappeared. 

“I’ll meet up with you later,” Remus said over whatever it was Sirius wanted to say. Then you pulled him behind you into a waiting empty compartment. Only after you slid the door shut did he allow himself to relax. 

“Finally. I didn’t think I was going to get to you in time,” you said. 

“In time for what?” 

A wicked gleam came into your [color] eyes. So preoccupied was he by what he needed to do before the train stopped in London that he did not immediately think to find such a gleam worrisome. You pointed your wand over your shoulder at the handle to the door, muttered a spell to lock it, and pounced. Remus fell backwards onto the nearest seat as your lips collided with his. This did nothing to stop your momentum, nor did the sound of surprised protest he attempted to make. In fact, both seemed only to encourage you. He found you clambering into his lap before he could do anything to stop you. 

This was not the first time he had wound up in such a situation. Although you hardly liked to snog him in front of Sirius (who found great delight in giving you what he considered “pointers”), that hadn’t stopped you from snogging Remus at all. He doubted there was a single nook in all of Hogwarts that you had not pressed him into at some point during the last year and a half. It had taken quite a while for him to grow use to your displays of affections, but it was not in your personality to give up when he did not immediately respond with equal passion. It was for this reason that you didn’t seem to notice he wasn’t kissing you back then either. 

“[Name]—” 

“Mmm?” 

It was very difficult for him to concentrate when you nuzzled his neck like that—something he knew you were well aware of. Then your teeth found his skin. Remus groaned. How many times had he stumbled onto Sirius in this exact same position with a whole variety of girls before sixth year? Though Remus hated to admit it, some part of him—that fully human sliver he could never entirely destroy—had been jealous. _He_ wanted to be able to hold a girl close, to love her and kiss and provide for her. 

You were the answer to his wish. For eighteen months, eighteen horrendous transformations, he had had you. No more. He could not play make-believe any longer. Not when he knew the road his life would take once he stepped off the Hogwarts Express for the final time. 

Oblivious to his thoughts, you pressed him against the back of his seat with the renewed force of your kissing. You laced your fingers thorough his hair and shifted positions so that you sat against a _very_ specific part of his anatomy. And Remus? Remus just sat there with his hands at sides, allowing the guilt over having tricked you for all that time wash slowly over him. 

“Remus? What's the matter?” When at last you pulled away, your brow was furrowed. A gentle hand lifted to cup his cheek. 

He stared down into those wide, beautiful eyes of yours. They were the same wide, beautiful eyes he had fallen for despite his best intentions after having buried his conscience as far down as it could go. Those eyes would never be passed down to children with _him_ in the picture. Neither would your wit or your passion or your dueling skills. You deserved so much more than life with a werewolf. 

“We have to stop seeing each other,” he heard himself say, as though from a great distance. 

The fingers against his scalp contracted in surprise. Then the weight on his lap disappeared. Your situations reversed; now _you_ stared down at him. Your face had gone paler than its usual shade. 

“You’re _breaking up with me_?” 

“Yes.” 

Tears sparkled at corners of your eyes, but you blinked them furiously away. “Why?” 

“Because we’re leaving school.” 

“That’s no reason!” 

His heart had never hammered as hard it did then, not even on the full moon. The hurt on your face pained him more than full moons did, too. Remus couldn’t let you know that. You were far, far too kind to let him off the hook if you knew just how badly he wanted to stay right there, kissing you on the Hogwarts Express for the rests of eternity. 

“Tell me, what _is_ a good reason for me to break up with you?” he asked carefully. 

“How about if you’ve decided you don’t love me anymore?” 

That drew his calculated cool demeanor to a halt. 

“Well?” you prompted him. 

Remus swallowed. “Well, what?” 

“Can you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me anymore?” 

He tried. Truly, he did. But as soon as his eyes met yours again, all was lost. He managed a vague, “I don’t…” before he had to look away again. 

“I thought so. Why don’t you give something else a try? Did Sirius put you up to this? Did your friends think it would be _funny_ if you made me cry?” 

“Actually, they’re very disappointed that I intend to break up with you at all.” 

“Then why are you _doing_ it?” you demanded. 

“We’ve talked about this, [Name]. I can’t support myself outside of Hogwarts. I haven’t got any prospects.” 

“No one does. There’s a bloody war going on, in case you haven’t noticed!” 

“It’s not just that. You would be in danger—” 

“When would I _not_? Muggle-borns aren’t exactly thriving just now. _I_ don’t have a job lined up either.” 

“I’m not worried about the war,” he said imploringly. 

You took the chance where you saw it. Sensing his weakness, you touched his face for a second time. “Then what _are_ you worried about, Remus? What’s going on?” 

This was it. Now or never. He would much rather you hear the news from him than through the grapevine, no matter how much it hurt to have to reveal the extent of his dishonesty to your face. Remus took an enormous breath and answered: 

“I’m a werewolf.” 

What color remained in your features drained away. He braced himself for the impact of a stunning spell—or something far worse. Whatever it was, he would not lift a hand to stop you. But no spell ever hit him. Instead of speaking any incantation, you let out a solitary sob. 

“This isn’t funny,” you said in a shaking voice. 

“No,” he agreed. 

“I’m going to kill them. I _know_ they’ve never liked me, but this is a step too far. And to think, you went _along_ with them!” 

Sighing, he gingerly removed your hand from his face. “No one put me up to this. I _am_ a werewolf. I have been since I was a child. I was bitten before school—” 

“No! Stop _lying_! If you wanted to break up with me this badly—” 

“Professor Dumbledore knew,” Remus went on calmly, acting as though you had not interrupted and were not attempting to wrench your wrist free of his grip. “He’s the reason I got to come to school at all. He planted the Whomping Willow and built a tunnel to the shack in Hogsmeade underneath it. I went there every full moon so I wouldn’t hurt anyone when I transformed.” 

“Stop it! Stop it!” 

“Everyone thinks that shack is haunted because they heard me screaming in there. I was always exhausted after. That’s why I looked so sick every month. Because I was getting ready to change, and recovering from it. No one could know. I didn’t tell anyone. But I’m registered with the Ministry. I won’t be able to get a job now, and soon everyone will know the truth.” 

By the time he finished, you were sobbing. He let you go at last, and you covered your face. Doing so did not prevent him from hearing your whimpers. Tiny shivers wracked your body. To think, only moments ago, you had been kissing him like your life depended on it. Remus had expected you to cry when he told you the truth. He just hadn’t anticipated feeling so awful about it. 

“[Name]…” He reached for your shoulder, only to have you wrench it away from him. 

“Don’t touch me, you monster!” you snarled. 

The kind light in your eyes had died away. A look of absolute hatred replaced it. Seeing that made Remus’ insides twist around like they wanted to expunge themselves of the toast and pumpkin juice he had eaten for breakfast. He dropped his arm. 

“I can’t believe I _loved_ you,” you said softly. “I can’t believe we _kissed_.” 

What was there to say to something like that? You were right. None of this ever should have happened. Remus should have known to keep his distance. People like you deserved better than people like him. He _was_ a monster. There was no getting around that, nor was there any getting around the fact he had _been_ a monster since you met. 

Remus stood. “I’m…sorry.” 

You did not reply. The renewed sounds of your crying followed him back out into the train corridor. Heads turned to follow him as Remus hurried back toward where he had last seen his friends. He had to find them before things took a turn for the worst. Thank Merlin one of the doors slid open to reveal James, Peter, and Sirius waiting for him shortly thereafter—but it wasn’t soon enough. 

“You’re not sorry!” 

He turned. You had exited your compartment and now stood with blazing eyes in the middle of the hall. No one said a word. One could have heard a quill drop, had you not been breathing like a winded hippogriff with the force of your disgust. Sniffling, you ran your arm over your nose then shouted: 

“You’re not sorry, but you will be, werewolf!” 

A chorus of surprised noises erupted from every person in the vicinity. Everyone twisted in their seat to see just who you were hurling such an accusation at. Whispers filled the corridor. Then someone—James or Sirius—snatched Remus’ arm and yanked him into their apartment, where they pulled the blind and used the same locking charm you had earlier. Even Peter had the wits about him to cast _Muffliato_ before the pounding could begin. 

No one said a word. All three men seemed incapable of finding anything encouraging to say in light of the current situation. Remus didn’t mind. After a few minutes of silence, he moved to look out the window. He was not surprised by your reaction, or by the reaction of any of the others on the Hogwarts Express. It had only been a matter of time before everyone found out anyway. There was no pity necessary. This was his life now, and always should have been. At least then, perhaps, he would have left one less broken girl behind in his path of destruction.


	38. Rain [Fred Weasley]

Yet another dreary day on the run bled slowly into yet another dreary night to follow. One sleepy countryside town sat in growing darkness, waiting for the rain promised in the air to fall. Heavy clouds had been gathering across the sky for hours, and even upon sunset their presence could be felt. A cold breeze ran through the mostly vacant main street. Those muggles who occupied the buildings were lucky: they had somewhere to go when the torrent finally struck. The young woman keeping watch outside a dilapidated barn less than a mile away had no such luxury. 

You were used to having no luxuries at all, though. Five months of constant moving around the country tended to have that sort of effect on a person. The other wizards and witches that you’d run across by accident suffered the same conditions you did: heat and bugs, dementors and cold. Still, _you_ had magic. Your evening would be much more comfortable than the muggles in town’s would be once the familiar creeping fog rolled in. Already you could see it gathering against the edges of the dark field you sat in. Hopefully the boys could get their radio program started soon. Then all of this would be worth the exposure to the weather. 

“What if we did it this way?” Either Fred or George’s voice drifted out toward you through the gap between the barn doors. 

“It doesn’t matter what _way_ we use it. The blasted thing’s broken!” the other twin replied. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

“Rowle’s! Direct hit with whatever curse that was last week. Haven’t been able to get it working since.” 

“I thought you said you were working on it.” 

“I _am_. It takes time, you—” 

“Would you lot shut up? I think I can get us a signal if you’d just let me concentrate,” Lee broke in. 

Judging by all the banging and bickering, you didn’t hold out a lot of hope that _Potterwatch_ would be going on air that night either. Your last flight from encroaching Death Eaters had seen a lot of damage done to the equipment necessary to put on the show. Lee would probably spend the rest of the night trying to fix things, and they’d give the show another go tomorrow. You stretched out your legs with a sigh until your feet nearly touched the jarred fire resting on the ground in front of you. On the bright side, the delay meant that you could stay in one place a little longer. On the not-so-bright side, _Potterwatch_ was what the four of you were on the run _for_. A night without it always felt wasted. 

A spark of silver flashed through the mist across from you. Lightning? It must have been, because a crack of thunder followed, and sharp, hard drops of water began to fall upon your head. But the silver thing did not disappear. Instead, it grew larger, closer, until it congealed into the shape of a massive, ghostly horse. You stood, wetness forgotten, to watch its approach. The Patronus galloped into the old barn without giving you so much as a second glance. 

Your heart pounded in your chest; your tongue felt thick in your mouth. What terrible fate had befallen one of your number? You lifted a shaking arm to pull open the doors—looking out for dementors was no longer necessary with that horse around—only to have said doors wrenched open before you could touch them. 

Fred stood in the space left. His cheeks flamed as brightly as his hair. You froze. Who in his family had been hurt this time? Had You-Know-Who and his followers finally found Ron? No opportunity for you to ask arose. He let out a sudden loud whoop that startled you, then he pulled you in for a hard kiss. 

“What was that for?” you asked breathlessly, once he had pulled back. 

His wide grin was enough to soothe any remaining fears about the status of his family you might have held. “Get your things together, [Name]. We’re leaving in five minutes.” 

“What? Why? _Potterwatch_ —” 

“We don’t need to broadcast tonight. Maybe not ever again. Everyone’s going to the same place.” 

“Everyone?” you echoed. “Same place?” 

For a long time, you had believed that nothing could bring down Fred and George’s spirits. They were so tirelessly optimistic, so determinedly bright-hearted. So many months on the run had seen your boyfriend, his twin brother, and your mutual best friend much doused in that regard. Now Fred was practically vibrating with excitement for the first time since Christmas. 

“Hogwarts!” His hands slid up your sodden sleeves to squeeze your shoulders. “Everyone is going to Hogwarts. Harry’s there right now. We just got the word. We’re all going to go there and fight!” 

You felt your eyes bug out of your head. Very attractive, you were certain. But how else were you supposed to react? Weeks with no communication from the Weasleys or the Order of the Phoenix, and now this? Fred didn’t help matters by interrupting your attempt to process this news with a question: 

“Why are you all wet?” 

In all the commotion, you had entirely forgotten to cast a water-repelling charm on yourself. The storm had come in entirely without your notice. You were soaked to the bone as a result…but you were not the only one. 

“So are you,” you said, smirking as you pushed some damp ginger hair from his forehead. 

His eyes followed your hand before moving again to your mouth. One arm wrapped around your waist to pull you closer still. “Well, that explains why you let me kiss you. It’s been a long time since I had a proper shower.” 

“Not like I smell much better.” 

“You’re a girl. Girls always smell better.” 

“That’s a lie, Mr. Weasley.” 

“But a pretty one, Miss [L Name]. And anyway, after tonight, we’ll be able to bathe as often as we like.” 

“And sleep in a real bed?” you asked hopefully. 

“Without anyone else nearby,” he answered. 

“Not even George?” 

“George can get his own bed once old Voldie’s gone. It’s been far too long since I had you all to myself, and after I’ve got reacquainted with a bar of soap—” 

“Oi!” Lee shoved the doors open, whacking Fred on the back of the head as he did. George stood behind him and added: 

“Make moon eyes at each other _later_. If we don’t get a move on, all the good Death Eaters will be taken.” 

“Right you are, gentlemen,” said Fred. “Ready to go, [Name]? I’d hate for Remus or Kingsley to get to any Malfoys before we do.” 

“Give me thirty seconds,” you replied. 

Though you hated to leave his embrace so soon, it was only a temporary evil. You waved your wand under the watchful eyes of your three closest friends to see all your things soar into your waiting basket, which then flew into your waiting hand. Then you scooped up your fire jar to stuff in with the rest. Fred shot you a wink. 

“Ready boys? And girl,” Lee asked. 

“As always, Lee,” said George. 

You all shared a look for the space of a breath. This was it: the long and terrible journey was finally at an end. One way or another, none of you would be returning to this godforsaken barn again. Each of you lifted your wand as one, and— _crack_!—disapparated from the soggy countryside. Cold and wet you might have arrived at the Hogshead Inn, but it was with the knowledge that all the pain and suffering would soon be over warming you from the inside. It would not be much longer until you could at last live the life you were meant to live with the (fresh-smelling) man of your dreams.


	39. Forgiven [Draco Malfoy]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a very nice note asking me to continue from "Camera." To this day, I'm not certain, but it's turned into something of a saga at this point.

It never ceased to surprise you how quickly time could fly when you were immersed in an activity...or perhaps it would have been better to say that you were always surprised you could find yourself immersed in any activity at all. Four years into school at Hogwarts and you still hadn’t found a subject to keep you interested. You were hopeless at Potions; Divination was a joke; and Professor Babbling had dropped you from Ancient Runes after you failed your very first end of year exam underneath her. 

If you cared enough to do the homework, things might have been different—but there was only _one_ thing you truly loved doing, and it was something you could never admit to anyone in your usual spheres of influence. The hobby had only started this year. Already it consumed you more than any other activity Hogwarts had to offer…even if you could only do it in short, secret bursts that never lasted long enough. 

“Er…[Name]? It’s getting close to curfew. Don’t you think we ought to call it quits for the night?” 

You looked up from your work to see Colin standing timidly at your side. He _always_ looked like that when he addressed you, which was frustrating to say the least. It was now well into the school year. One would think any Gryffindor with a modicum of intelligence would realize by then that you had no intention of hexing them into goo. Thank Merlin he’d stopped flinching every time you breathed in his direction, at least. 

“Already?” you asked, unable to mask your disappointment. 

Colin nodded, tapping the ugly muggle watch on his wrist. “Nearly nine.” 

A glance into your potion showed you that weren’t anywhere close to done developing what you’d brought to work on that night. Either you’d have to give it up or take it with you to your dorm, and neither was an appealing option. You swore. 

“I-I can stay, if you want to finish!” he said hurriedly. 

“No. It’s my own damn fault for being late tonight. Go on. I’ll clean up here. Don’t want you caught by the Inquisitorial Squad, do we?” 

“Are you sure?” 

An impatient wave on your part sent him swiftly to the door. Before he was entirely out, you said, “Same time next week?” 

He stared at you incredulously, just as he always did. “If you want.” 

After you nodded yourself, he finally rushed off, presumably to his dormitory. This left you to magic up the cameras, photo paper, and potions leftover from your lesson that night. Such work was beneath you, but there weren’t any other options available. Calling a house-elf would attract attention to your illicit activities, and you had good reason to keep Colin on your side. 

Not that doing so was really all that hard, you mused as you gathered up the half-finished pictures remaining where the development solution had recently been sitting. Colin was about as Gryffindor as they came, even being the tiny, twitchy fourth year that he was. Any self-respecting Slytherin would have already revealed your dirty little hobby, or used the information against you in some fashion. That meant allying yourself with a muggle-born in your rival house. As long as you could keep your photography classes with him a secret, though, no one needed to know you were more of a disgrace to pure-blood wizardry than your grades indicated. 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” said a familiar, drawling voice the moment you stepped out of the empty classroom. Draco Malfoy of all people stood against a wall across the corridor. Any hope you had of this being a chance encounter was dashed as soon as you saw the malicious gleam in his gray eyes. He peeled himself away from the stones to walk predatorily right in your direction. 

“I caught that Creevey boy scuttling back to his hole just before curfew and thought I might give his little girlfriend detention for missing it entirely,” he went on. “Imagine my surprise in finding _you_ here, [Name].” 

You stood your ground. There was no reason to panic yet. He knew nothing, as evidenced by his next question: 

“Is this where you’ve been sneaking off to? Snogging Creevey in broom closets now, are you?” 

Warmth surged into your cheeks. “Don’t insult me, Draco. You know I wouldn’t touch a muggle-born like him if my life depended on it.” 

“Do I? I saw him come out of that very room. No one else went in. You came out.” 

“A coincidence.” 

His eyebrows pressed together. “What were you doing in there with filth like that?” 

Despite your inner trepidation, you glared right back at him. Draco might have been prefect and a member of the Inquisitorial Squad, but he never used that power against fellow Slytherins. All he wanted was to get a rise out of you. You were not about to let him do so. 

“Nothing with _him_ , I assure you,” you answered coldly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be getting back to our common room. Seeing as I’m _not_ on the Inquisitorial Squad, I’d hate to give you reason to report me to Professor Umbridge for being out of bounds.” 

Your attempt to brush past him was halted by his grabbing your wrist—hard. 

“You’re on thin ice as it is. What do you think she’ll say when she finds out you’re sneaking around cavorting with mudbloods?” he demanded. 

“I’m not ‘sneaking around’ doing anything!” 

“Pansy says you’ve been disappearing once a week all term. If you’ve gone and joined Potter’s little secret society—” 

You wrenched your hand free of his and lifted your wand with your other. “How _dare_ you accuse me of running around with Potter and his friends!” 

“I’m only warning you,” he sneered, wholly unafraid of the red sparks flickering directly toward his nose. “We’re onto them. It’s only a matter of time before we find out where they’re gathering, and if you’re found there with them…” 

Draco didn’t finish his threat. He didn’t _need_ to. A jumping sort of chill filled your stomach, like you’d just eaten a whole bucket of Ice Mice. These were dangerous times for people without blood like yours—not officially, of course, but he wasn’t the only one getting letters from home reminding them of the real state of things. Making amends with Colin over your previous behavior and learning from him would win you no favors in the present or coming regime. 

It took a great deal of effort for you to calmly lower your wand. What were you so frightened of? You _weren’t_ helping Potter break the rules. You weren’t breaking any rules to begin with! Draco’s accusations always rattled you up, that was all. 

“Go on and look in there, then, if you really think I’m capable of betraying you like that. There’s no one else inside. Not Potter. Not anyone else,” you said. 

He slid his gaze lazily from your face to the door behind you. “If you’re not a part of an illegal rebellion against the only sane teacher we’ve ever had in this place, where are you going every week? Pansy says—” 

“Oh, well, if precious _Pansy_ says anything, it _must_ be true! Do you listen better when something’s being moaned into your ear?” you asked savagely. 

Draco, however, did not rise to your bait. “She’s given me less reason to doubt her loyalties than you have.” 

That stung. Sure, you were not a very talented or dedicated witch. You slept your way through most of your studies simply because they didn’t pique your interest. Maybe you didn’t throw around slurs quite so often as your peers, and perhaps you occasionally forgot to treat muggle-borns—especially Colin—as their station deserved. All the same, you were pure-blood through and through. One of your closest friends since childhood _questioning_ you like that (on word from his _girlfriend_ of all things, after she’d made it clear how much she hated you!) made you feel sick. Was what you were doing really _that_ bad? 

“This is ridiculous,” you said at last. “I’m going back to the common room.” 

“She found _this_ inside your trunk.” 

You only got about two steps away from him before your dread got the better of you. After a second of hesitation, you turned back to Draco to see him holding up a little square of glossy paper. All the anger-born color drained from your cheeks. Already you had lost, but you _had_ to try to save face. 

“What’s Pansy doing going through my things?” you demanded. 

“As a member of the Inquisitorial Squad, she’s allowed. We’re trying root out all the opposition to Professor Umbridge.” 

“I’m not doing anything to oppose her!” 

He stepped closer, still holding out the damning evidence. It was a photograph of him, of course. Nearly all of yours were. This particular picture featured him laughing on the ground with the rest of his quidditch team. “Why are you spying on me, then?” he asked. 

“I’m not!” You tried snatching the photograph back, but he simply magicked it too high in the air above your head for you to reach it. 

“That was from quidditch practice just a few weeks ago. You weren’t even there. You were supposed to be in detention with that great oaf. Did that sniveling mudblood pay you off for my schedule so he could follow me around for Potter?” 

“What could Colin have that I would possibly want?” 

“Colin, is it? Getting _cozy_ with him now? I’d like to know what he has on you as well, getting you do his dirty work for him.” 

“I wouldn’t work for him for anything.” 

“Then why do you have this photo?” 

By then, you and Draco were nearly nose to nose. You stared up into his eyes and realized that this was it: you had to come clean. The alternative was for him (and by extension the rest of your house and your own parents) to believe you were not only lowering yourself by being a lackey for some Gryffindor nobody, but a muggle-born Gryffindor nobody to boot. 

“It’s mine,” you answered in a constricted voice. “I took it because I thought you looked nice. I sneaked off to watch you practice when Professor Hagrid was distracted. The picture is for _me_ , not Col—Creevey. He has nothing to do with it. He’s just—teaching me how to take and develop photographs.” 

Draco could not have looked more shocked if Granger showed up again to slap him across the face. “ _Teaching you how to take and develop photographs_?” he echoed. 

The dam in your throat broke. Along with that burst came a shower of hot, ashamed tears. “That’s right. So go ahead and owl my parents. Tell Professor Umbridge. I’m never going to amount to anything more a photographer for _Witch Weekly_ anyway, so why bother staying at Hogwarts anymore? You-Know-Who isn’t going to want me, and you don’t either!” 

It was quite a tirade, made all the longer by your thoroughly undignified sobbing in between words. Draco seemed capable of nothing more than gawking at you when you were finished. And why not? You hardly ever cracked an emotion, and now you were _screaming_ at him in a dark, empty hallway. Still shaking, you lifted an arm to wipe the slime from your upper lip, then spun around to leave a second time. 

“Keep the bloody picture,” you added before you turned a corner, "or give it to _Pansy_ since you trust her so much more than me!” 

With that, you tore away, giving Draco no further chance to accuse you of being a blood traitor. You ignored Pansy’s pointed, gleeful stare as you swept into the common room just a few minutes later. The door to the girls dormitories protected you from its direct beam at least. Then you raced straight to your bed and collapsed face-first into your pillow. All you had wanted was a chance to do the _one_ thing in life that you truly loved. In exchange, you had lost your place in pureblood society…and worse still, you’d lost even the friendship of the boy you loved.


	40. Heart [Tom Riddle]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked to write a prequel to "Eyes," which...this isn't. I tried for quite a long time, but in the end I couldn't really come up with anything that meshed. I wrote this instead. Unfortunately, I don't like it much more than any of my failed attempts at a prequel.

Hogwarts seemed so large and so important when first a young Tom Riddle had arrived at its gates so long ago. Back then, the castle had been full to bursting with secrets just waiting for him to unlock, knowledge just waiting for him to find—and unlock those secrets and find that knowledge he had. Nothing was beyond the abilities of the heir of Salazar Slytherin. He learned, he watched, he probed. But upon what should have been a triumphant return for the second half of his sixth year, he found the school somehow diminished in his eyes. No longer could he grow his reach inside its walls, not when he remained subject to the whims and scrutiny of his instructors. 

It was to one such whim that he journeyed that evening. Professor Slughorn frequently threw little parties for his favored students at the start of a term. Tom had often attended them in the past, but that was out of a necessity he no longer had. The get-togethers were otherwise long, tedious affairs that required him to interact politely with those typically beneath his notice. He would have preferred to gather his followers for a meeting after so much time apart from them for the holidays, but it could not be helped. Dumbledore was watching him more closely than ever. And, after all, Slughorn _had_ been a great help to Tom as of late. Never let it be said that he did not repay people for their services. 

He arrived well after the party began. The dungeons were teeming when he stepped inside. So many bodies pressed together in the heat, so many voices chattering away pointlessly at once—it was enough to make his head throb. Still, so much the better for Tom. If he could get through the night unnoticed and without the usual cavalcade of useless introductions, he would consider the hours merely time wasted. 

“Tom, my boy!” 

A scowl flickered across his face as he heard the booming voice of the Potions professor cut across the room. He carefully rearranged his features just in time for Slughorn to clap him on the shoulder and force him to turn around. Tom’s teeth clicked together in agitation at the touch, but Slughorn did not seem to notice. 

“Hello, Professor.” Tom inclined his dark head. 

“I thought you might not be able to make it! When I spoke to your friend in class today, he told me you—” 

“I was able to trade my prefect duties with Nixon for the night,” he cut in smoothly. “You know I would never miss one of your parties so long as it is in my power to attend them.” 

Slughorn chuckled. The rogue in his cheeks soothed Tom somewhat, as did his finally managing to shake off the sausage-like fingers grasping his arm. Clearly the man was already deep into the mulled mead. He would pose no threat. In fact, with some encouragement, Slughorn might soon be drunk enough that Tom could slip out early unnoticed. 

“Would you like something to drink, Professor? Perhaps I could top off your glass.” 

“No, no, I have quite enough, I assure you. Can’t let myself get out of control so early in the festivities! Not when I have someone I’m absolutely desperate for you meet.” 

Thankfully, he did not attempt to physically steer Tom through the crowd. He simply motioned for him to follow. It was at that moment that Slughorn seemed to get his first real look at Tom’s face—and froze. 

“Tom? Are you all right? You look…unwell.” 

Did he suspect that the information drawn out of him had already been used? No, Tom decided, he could not. Though Slughorn knew more of dark magic than most at Hogwarts, he was far too much of a coward to _use_ it. The signs and symptoms of its use would elude him. 

“Simply tired, sir. I’m still recovering from a family reunion.” 

Slughorn’s gaze continued to linger until Tom at last worked his thin mouth into a vacant sort of smile. It was an expression that Slughorn did not return as he started on his way again. “Well, I hope you feel better soon. I would hate to hear that you’re falling behind after all the hard work you’ve put into your studies.” 

“I have no intention of letting that happen.” 

“Good, good.” 

He seemed unable to stop himself from glancing back at Tom every couple of steps as they continued toward the back of the room. Tom did not care. _If_ Slughorn were to voice his concerns, even to the one teacher that might believe them, he would have to out himself as well, and Tom knew that that Slughorn cared far too much about his status to risk it over something he could not prove. Perhaps he had misjudged Slughorn as well, for he returned to his typical buoyancy the same moment that Tom spotted a young woman sitting at a table just beyond most of the crowd. 

“Just the witch I was looking for!” Slughorn cried, and the woman looked over. 

She was beautiful. Her [color] eyes slid straight to Tom’s face and lit up at once. He felt a shock run up his spine as he took in the appearance of a woman he had thought he had rid himself of for good. “[L Name]?” he said. 

A smile pulled up the corners of your mouth. “Hello, Tom. It’s been a long time.” 

“You two know each other already?” Slughorn asked, looking between the two of you. 

“In a manner of speaking. I got him in trouble quite a few times back during that nasty business with the dead girl they found in the toilets. Kept running into him in odd corridors during my nightly rounds.” 

“I was trying to do _your_ job finding the culprit,” Tom said coldly. 

“Yes, you did an excellent job, and I regret having ever reported your behavior to Professor Dippet.” 

“Please,” Slughorn conjured a handkerchief from the end of his wand, then pressed the cloth against his sweating brow, “this is a _party_. I beg you, let us not dwell on those terrible times. They are past us! And we do know now that Tom had nothing to do with that poor girl.” 

You bowed your head in apology. “Of course, Professor.” 

There was a pause during which Tom was sure he was supposed to offer some sympathy himself. He did not, being far too busy glaring at you—not that you seemed to notice or care. Slughorn continued to sweat for several moments more before he shook himself and went back to business in high spirits once again: 

“Since you two already know each other, I can dispense with the introductions. [Name] here just got named the youngest unspeakable in a century!” 

“Really,” said Tom. 

“I never would have got the position if you hadn’t introduced me to the head of the department at a party like this, Professor,” you said. 

He waved away your unoffered thanks. “So long as you keep me abreast of what’s going on in the chain of command, I’ll consider us even.” 

“ _And_ so long as I agree to help your current students, present company included.” 

“That, too.” Slughorn shot you a roguish wink. “I’ve other guests to attend to. You two enjoy each other’s company.” 

With a suggestive waggle of his fingers, he disappeared back into the throng, leaving Tom alone with you. He _could_ leave, he realized—but you would probably mention his quick exit to Slughorn later, and then Tom would have to endure the questions about that for the rest of the week. 

You merely watched him as he thought things through, then remarked, “You look different.” 

“I should hope so. You left school two years ago. Most people change appearances during that amount of time.” 

“It’s not just that. You actually went through with it, didn’t you?” 

“What are you—” 

“You know precisely what I’m talking about, Tom. Forgive me,” there was a laugh in your voice that he did not like, “ _Lord Voldemort_. I meant no impertinence. It just seemed to me that you wouldn’t like your real name spread around so casually. Horace does not know it, does he?” 

It was not often that he found himself at a loss for words. Here sat a woman from his past, one that had never been involved with him except to get in his way more times than most could survive. You had not been in his house, had been no one of consequence to him. Now you returned, not only grown up and beautiful, but implying you knew him in ways that even his closest followers did not? He stared right into your [color] eyes in search of falsehood, and found none. 

Tom took the seat across from you. “What is it that you think I did?” he asked in his most dangerous voice. It was the voice he used to remind those in his circle of their place, the voice he used to convince the uncertain to follow his orders. 

“I don’t _think_ anything. I know,” you said, lifting a single eyebrow. 

“And how would you _know_ what I did?” 

“I’ve told you before. I’m a seer. I come from a long line of them.” 

“They say centaurs can tell the future in the stars,” Tom sneered. “Do you claim them as your ancestors?” 

“If you truly believe a bunch of half-breeds like that could do anything half as well as a pure-blood witch, perhaps my coming to see you was a mistake.” 

His eyes narrowed. If there was one thing he hated above all the not inconsiderable amount of things that he hated, it was being treated like there was something he did not understand. The smirk on your lips made the blood boil beneath his skin like nothing else, not even looking into the face of that creature most would claim had been his father. 

“What could _you_ have need to see me for?” 

“You’ve got things mixed up.” You shook your head, tossing your hair from side to side. “It is _you_ that needs _me_.” 

“What would I want with a false fortuneteller? I’ve no use for tea leaves or crystal balls.” 

“You have more need for them than you expect.” 

“Even if I did, I would want a _real_ seer. You couldn’t even find the culprit behind that girl’s murder. You were too busy trying to pin it all on me.” 

“The tea leaves weren’t clear at the time. I knew they were pointing me toward you, but not why. You managed the situation beautifully even with my interference, so what’s the harm?” 

“If you _really_ knew who did it…” 

“I do,” you said, “but who was going to complain about you getting rid of a beast like Hagrid? Don’t worry. I’m not planning to go to Dumbledore about it. I’ve known for a few years now, just like I know about that family reunion you had a few nights ago. I don’t want to expose you.” 

His mouth opened to argue. Then Tom registered what you had said. “What _did_ you come here for?” he asked instead. 

“To offer you my services. Even if you don’t believe in divination, I _am_ an Unspeakable. There are things going on in the Department of Mysteries that even _you_ couldn’t dream of, my lord. I could tell you some of it, if you’ll have me.” 

For the very first time that night, you showed him some subservience. Your eyes drifted away from his face, your head bowed, your hands found your lap. He was—despite his instincts—somewhat intrigued. Tom had heard the rumors about you: that your sorting into a house other than Slytherin had been a fluke; that every witch in your family tree back for generations had been of the most powerful of their age; that the spells you had during which you twitched and shrieked were, in fact, visions that you refused to speak of to anyone else. It was not as though he hadn’t watched you during your time at school with him, and he had not _only_ watched because you had very nearly got him caught releasing his basilisk. You were prefect, head girl, top of you classes, and the subject of much discussion between boys of all ages. 

But you were still impertinent and Tom did not trust you. 

“Why would you offer me this?” he said softly. 

“Because no one has ever dared to go as far as you will.” Did he detect a breathless excitement in your voice? “You may not believe in it, but I have _seen_ your plans. I have seen them come to pass, and—” 

“[L Name], are you quite done with Tom yet? I’m afraid you can’t monopolize _all_ her time, my boy.” 

Of course, it would be _Slughorn_ that interrupted. He bounced up to your table with a genial smile that rankled more than usual. You looked up at him with no visible frustration whatsoever. In fact, you appeared _amused_ by his behavior. 

“Someone else you wanted me to meet, Professor?” you asked. 

Slughorn winked. “Only a Coral Armina, one of our most promising transfiguration students. Her great-great-great-great-grandfather drafted the very first Animagus Register. They say he could turn into a chimera at will!” 

“I’ll be right there.” 

You stood fluidly from your chair without so much as a glance at the seething Tom beside you. He watched you take a step toward the waiting teacher before you turned back to him. In the blink of an eye, you leaned in to whisper, “Think about what I said, won’t you? I’m sure a man of your talents can figure out how to contact me after tonight.” 

Was it only his imagination, or did he fell your lips brush against his as you spoke? He couldn’t say, only that his own mouth tingled as you walked away again. Above this sensation, however, was that of a roaring, burning anger at watching you follow Slughorn obediently toward a second year girl trembling beside a plate of crystallized pineapples. What had you been about to say about his plans? Did it truly matter? He decided that it did. Whatever you had to say, he would find it out—and woe be unto you if he disliked your answer. 

Upon finding himself alone and unwatched, he got up to leave the party. It had not been a complete waste of time after all. What Tom would get out of it—get out of you—remained to be seen. You might regret having attracted his attention and piqued his interest that evening. On the other hand, he surprised himself by finding that he wasn’t prepared to kill you for it quite yet.


	41. Smile [Oliver Wood]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a request to do more Oliver. I'll gladly oblige because he's really easy to write for!

Oliver Wood knew that he was being a _little_ overdramatic. The quidditch match with Hufflepuff had been over for some time now. Every single remaining member of his team had left for the castle hours ago. Even Fred and George had given up on trying to coax him out of the locker room. All Oliver seemed capable of doing still was standing underneath the stream of warm water in the shower with his forehead pressed against the cold, wet stone wall. Okay, so maybe he was being _a lot_ overdramatic. Unfortunately, this realization did nothing to spur him back toward Hogwarts. 

“Oliver? Oliver, are you in here?” 

A sudden familiar voice, echoing against the sides of the empty chamber, made him move at last. He jumped, scrambling to summon the towel he had foolishly left sitting on a bench some feet away. The sound of footsteps caused him to fumble repeatedly in his attempts to wrap the fabric around his waist before the owner of the voice appeared. 

“Bloody towel!” he snapped. “Just get—” 

“Ahem.” 

Heat flared up from his chin to his hairline. “[Name]! This is the _boy’s_ locker room!” 

“Like there’s anything on display in here right now that I haven’t already seen,” you replied. 

“That’s not the point!” 

“Then what _is_ the point?” 

“It’s the principle of the matter. You’re a _girl_ and a _girl_ shouldn’t be in the _boy’s_ locker room.” 

“There’s no one else here, so who cares?” More footsteps followed the question, then you wrenched the curtain between the showers and the lockers open. Oliver yelped. “Would you get out of there? I didn’t come to stare at your nethers.” 

Scowling, he shut the water off, then brushed past you with one hand holding his towel in place. His filthy, still-sodden quidditch robes lay in a heap on the muddy floor. Oliver toed them and sighed heavily. 

“The whole team’s waiting for you back in the common room,” you said softly. 

“How do _you_ know?” 

“I just came from the hospital wing. Angelina told me where they all were headed.” 

He grunted. 

“I think Harry would like you to go see him.” 

“And say _what_?” Oliver demanded as he collapsed onto the bench. Cooling water droplets ran from his hair down the back of his neck. 

“Maybe tell him not to beat himself up for falling off his broom?” 

“Why in the name of Merlin would I tell him _that_?” 

For the first time that day, he really looked at you. He rather wished he hadn’t. You were just as wet as he was, and much less clean. Obviously you had walked through the freezing storm outside just to talk to him. As his eyes settled at last upon your face, a line appeared between your eyebrows: a clear sign you didn’t appreciate his attitude, though the arms crossed over your chest indicated that well enough themselves. 

“Because he _shouldn’t_ feel bad about falling off his broom,” you said pointedly. 

“I _know_ it wasn’t Harry’s fault, all right?” 

“Then why don’t you tell _him_ that?” 

After he wrenched his gaze away from your face, Oliver grumbled something unintelligible even to himself. He did not want to talk to his girlfriend just then. What he _did_ want was to wander into the Forbidden Forest and never come out. Then again, the centaurs weren’t likely to let him teach them quidditch, and then he’d never get the chance to do so again. 

A strange sensation prickled against his scalp. Oliver flinched back to the present to find you sitting beside him, your fingers worked gently into his hair. “It’s going to be okay, Ollie.” 

“It is _not_.” 

He stood up to march over to his locker. Once there, however, he made no move to open it to retrieve his clean, dry clothing. The wind moaned audibly outside the entrance to the locker room. Goosebumps erupted over his bare chest and arms, but Oliver didn’t care. He _deserved_ to be cold and wet. He deserved to miserable. 

“Three years,” he said. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Three years I’ve been captain and I haven’t won a single cup. I try and I try and I try, and I’m just not good enough.” 

“Oliver—” 

“Training session after training session!” He turned to face you. “I’ve got the best damn team in the entire _school_. We should have won last year. Hell, we should have _two_ years ago! Every single time I have victory in my grasp, something happens to pull it away. What’s the matter with me? Why can’t I just…” 

Thrusting his fist into his other palm, he closed his eyes. He wanted to cry. Thank Merlin you were there so he couldn’t. What if he couldn’t stop once he started? All the same, he couldn’t forget _why_ he felt that way. The day McGonagall brought Harry right into Defense Against the Dark Arts to tell Oliver she had found him his seeker, Oliver had thought— _really_ thought!—he’d finally met someone to rival Charlie Weasley in talent. Gryffindor’s victory had been assured from that moment on. Instead, the most spectacular games to Oliver Wood’s name were those involving a handful of spectacularly odd losses and forfeits. 

“You done?” you interrupted his thoughts. 

Oliver opened his eyes again, frowning at you. “You just don’t _get_ it. Quidditch isn’t your life. You don’t _care_ about it.” 

“You really think that after dating you this long I haven’t picked anything up? None of this has anything to do with your skills as a captain _or_ a keeper, idiot.” 

“If you only came here to insult me—” 

“You’re a victim of the circumstances. _No one_ could have predicted dementors raiding the field during the match. No one could have guessed what they’d do to Harry either.” 

He paused, feeling a faint flurry of hope surge through his veins right to his chest—only to be doused by his next morose thought: “I should have. Malfoy was saying something like that happened on the train here this term. I just didn’t want to listen to him.” 

“As well you shouldn’t. If I found out you listened to a word coming out of that slimy git’s mouth, I’d have taken you straight to Madam Pomfrey myself.” 

“But if I _had_ listened to him…” 

He trailed away into another what-if scenario. That time, you pulled him away by standing, walking over, and touching his cheek. “You’re still in this game, Oliver. I talked to the team. You could very well still win the cup.” 

Only if the rest of the matchups went very specific ways, he very nearly argued. Even _if_ Gryffindor made it that far, who knew? They’d probably wind up with something like a rampaging giant in the middle of the pitch with the luck _he_ had. Then you kissed him on the mouth, and Oliver found his desire to fight about his chances in quidditch draining away long enough to kiss you back. 

“Did you only come out here to give me a checkup?” he asked, but only after you both separated breathlessly a few minutes later. 

To his surprise, you colored slightly at his question; the thumbs behind his neck paused in their efforts to draw faint circles in the skin there. “Not _exactly_. You’ll think it’s stupid.” 

“Never.” 

“No, it _is_ stupid. Fred and George—well, they sort of implied they thought you might be in here trying to drown yourself. I got worried.” 

“Me? Do something like that? When there’s no way to know if they play quidditch in the afterlife?” 

“You could always stick around post-death. Be the first-ever quidditch-playing ghost.” 

“Wouldn’t the quaffle go straight through me?” he asked. 

“I never said you’d be a _good_ quidditch-playing ghost.” 

“They’d kick me off the team after a single game!” 

Despite the emotion in his protest, Oliver laughed. This was why he loved you: No matter how bad a funk he got into after a loss, you always showed up to pull him back out. You grinned at his own smile before shoving him back toward his locker. 

“Put some robes on so we can head back to the common room, would you? It’s _freezing_. Bet I can get George and Fred to swipe us some butterbeer from the kitchens. We can spend the whole evening cuddling, and then you can get up early tomorrow to make a new training plan _and_ apologize to Harry.” 

He paused only long enough to kiss you on the cheek. “Sounds great.” 

It couldn’t have just been his imagination that you looked so pleased with yourself as you turned to leave. Oliver felt pretty pleased himself. Just before you got out the door, however, he thought of something else: 

“Do I _have_ to do that last bit?” he asked. 

“ _Yes_ ,” you answered forcefully. 

With one last roll of your eyes, you disappeared around the corner. Oliver’s smile did not vanish along with you. You were right. He still had a chance to win the cup before he left Hogwarts for good. Apologizing to Harry wouldn’t be _so_ awful with that in mind. And in the time before that? He could look forward to several hours of your undivided attention. Perhaps he hadn’t been _truly_ overreacting earlier after all. Not if it earned him so alone time with you in the end.


	42. Promise [James Potter]

Another school year at Hogwarts begat another rush to get ready just as many previous years had. The sun barely had time to inch over the blue horizon when your mother barged into your bedroom to wake you and your two little sisters. A hectic morning spent eating and dressing and packing (Celine _always_ waited until the morning of a trip to gather her things) led to an equally hectic race through Kings Cross to get through the barrier before the Hogwarts Express could leave you all behind. 

As usual, the start of the journey to school found you frazzled, irritated, and with no greater desire than to ditch the siblings that had made you that way. Celine and Francine, being only second years, stared at you as though you could conjure them up a couple of seats. The train pitched forward, leading all three of you to stumble around your trunks. 

“Oi, [Name]! Where’ve you been?” 

Luckily an opportunity to rid yourself of their company presented itself nearly at once. A familiar voice rang out in the corridor, and you turned to see a boy with messy, jet black hair sticking his head out of one of the nearby compartments: your best friend, James Potter. 

“Got stuck with this lot. They couldn’t get anywhere on time if someone gave them time-turners,” you explained. 

“Well, get your arse in here now. We’ve got a lot to discuss.” 

“See you later,” you told your sisters. 

“Can we come, too?” Francine begged. 

“No. Fifth years only. Anyway, don’t you want to sit with people in your own house?” 

“No, we want to sit with _you_!” 

“Well, too bad. You aren’t allowed.” 

“What,” Celine said loudly, as you bent to pick up your trunk, “you’re going to just leave us here so you can sit with your _boyfriend_?” 

“James is _not_ my boyfriend,” you hissed. 

“That’s not what you say in your diary!” said Francine. 

“[Name] and James, sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” the two girls sang together. 

You whipped your wand out of your jacket pocket and pointed it at each of their noses in turn, “Say one more word and I’ll hex your lips off.” 

Both fell sullenly silent. Face still burning, you put your wand away and traipsed over to where James waited, watching the show with an amused expression. 

“Sorry about that,” you said. 

His lips quirked up into a larger smile as he backed away to let you into the compartment. “Glad _I_ don’t have any siblings.” 

“You should be,” said Sirius, who was sitting right beside the door. Remus was next to him, and Peter had stationed himself next to the window—not a brilliant idea, given his tendency to be motion sick. “Siblings are a waste of space, the whole lot of them.” 

“I take it you and Regulus did _not_ make up over the summer,” you observed. 

Sirius only crossed his over his chest with a faint, “hmph.” 

“Good to know. How was everyone else’s break?” 

The boys looked just the same as they always did: Sirius haughty, Remus tired, Peter eager, and James…well, he looked like James, only just a little bit older and taller. You noted with a mixture of relief and disappointment that he seemed to have already forgotten your little sisters’ antics in the corridor. So there was one more thing that would be exactly like the past couple of years. 

“Oh, I had a _wonderful_ time with Mum and Dad,” Sirius said. “Found some old muggle pinup magazine pictures to put on my wall. They absolutely _love_ the new décor.” 

“Nice.” James high fived him. 

“ _I_ spent the entire time studying for Transfiguration!” Peter said. 

“Mine was fine, thank you for asking,” Remus put in—before Sirius or James or yourself could needle Peter for his obvious lie. “James, what did you mean when you said we have a lot to discuss?” 

James put his hands together. “I’m ever so glad you asked, Moony. All summer long, while Wormtail was wan—” 

“Practicing for Transfiguration, yes,” Remus said smoothly. 

You and Sirius caught each other’s eye, forcing you to nearly have to stuff your fist into your mouth to prevent yourself from laughing. 

“Let me _finish_. All summer long, I’ve been thinking of brand new ways to wreak havoc at school. It’s our fifth year. We’ve really got to step things up if we want to stay ahead of McGonagall.” 

Yes, new year, same James. You felt as though maybe only _you_ were not quite the same, because before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “But we’ve got O.W.L.s this year!” 

Peter, Sirius, and James all gaped at you as though you’d just given yourself a magnificent aquamarine beard for the second time. 

“Who cares about O.W.L.s?” Peter asked. 

“Are you going _Moony_ on us, [Name]?” Sirius demanded. 

“No! I just…” Heat climbed all the way from your chin to your hairline. Remus was, of course, one of your dearest friends, but being compared to him in such a way was _not_ a compliment. “I need to make sure to get into the right N.E.W.T. classes. If I don’t do well enough this year, I’ll have to choose a different job. And, well, James, your schemes _do_ tend to eat up a lot of time.” 

“[Name], you’re _brilliant_. You’re already an animagus. What harder thing can there be?” James asked impatiently. 

You were all set to preen over this unexpected compliment when Remus came unnecessarily to your aid: 

“Her brilliance notwithstanding, she does have a point. We’re fifth years now. I think it’s about time we _all_ dedicate ourselves to our studies.” 

“You’re only saying that because you’ve been made prefect,” said Sirius. 

“You _have_?” you asked. 

Sirius knowing more about Remus than the rest of you did was not a surprise. What _was_ was that anyone thought _Remus_ was prefect material! After all, he did run around with _your_ group, which meant he spent nearly as much time in detention as you, James, Sirius, and even Peter did. 

The faint color dusting Remus’ cheeks made it clear his thoughts were going the same direction as yours. “Yes. I got the letter a few weeks ago along with our supply list.” 

“Who’s the girl for Gryffindor?” 

“It’s—” 

“Evans!” 

James wasn’t answering your question for Remus. No, at that very moment, Lily Evans herself had chosen to walk past your compartment. He didn’t just stick his head out into the corridor for her, oh no. For Evans, he left the room entirely. She froze in shock at his sudden appearance. A gold and red “P” embossed pin matching Remus’ gleamed upon her breast. 

Once she got over her surprise, however, Evans recovered quickly. “Potter. I should have guessed. What do _you_ want?” 

“Come sit with us? We’re _way_ better company than what you’ve got at present. See? Remus is a prefect, too!” 

“That’s _it_ Potter!” So great a distraction was Evans by herself that of course you didn’t see the greasy boy lurking in her shadow until Snape pulled out his own wand. “This year, I’ll—” 

“I’ve got this,” she interrupted. Then her oh so beautiful green eyes lingered momentarily on each face gazing out of your compartment; only James earned a longer spiteful look than you did. “Listen here, all of you. I don’t know _what_ Professor Dumbledore was thinking when he made _any_ of your little gang a prefect. But if you think for one minute that Lupin being one _changes_ anything between us, you’ve got dragon dung for brains. You try to use his status to bully anyone, I’ll get the lot of you detention so fast your heads will spin. Come on, Sev,” Evans added, “let’s go find somewhere more _pleasant_ to sit.” 

“Evans! That’s not what I meant. Come back! Evans!” James shouted after her. 

No matter how desperately he did so, he couldn’t get her to turn back around. A few minutes passed during which he stared dejectedly down the corridor. Only after that did he come back inside with a sigh. 

“I don’t know what she _sees_ in that git,” he lamented. 

“ _I_ don’t know what you see in _her_ ,” you said. 

James looked up at you, utterly aghast. Peter gasped. But why shouldn’t you say what you thought? There was no love lost between you and Evans. Your sharing a dormitory was the extent of your relationship. She loathed you; you loathed her—and no, it wasn’t _only_ James’ obsession with her that drove you to such an intense dislike. He was your _best friend_. Seeing her hurt him like this year after year did nothing to improve her reputation in your eyes. 

Luckily, Sirius and Remus seemed to agree with you, if their sympathetic nodding was any indication. 

“That _was_ a little harsh, Prongs,” Sirius said, leaning forward to grasp James’ shoulder. 

“[Name] isn’t wrong, though,” said Remus. 

“Not _now_. Can’t you see that James is grieving?” 

“I just have to try harder is all,” James said. “This year is my year. We’ll do something so amazing, so spectacular that Evans will _have_ to see how much she loves me! There won’t be a damn thing Snivellus can do about it either.” 

“Yeah!” Peter cheered. 

“You know that sort of thing isn’t going to impress her,” said Remus. Though you couldn’t have been on your way to school for more than half an hour at that point, he was already digging through his trunk in search of a book to distract him from the all-too typical train ride. 

“Whose side are you on?” asked James. 

“Yours, of course.” Sirius’ soothing tone had no effect on James’ stricken expression. Sighing, Sirius released him and ran a hand through his own long, dark hair. “We _all_ know how you feel about Evans, mate. The whole bloody castle knows! But it’s been five years, and, well…” 

“Well _what_?” 

“None of us like the way she treats you," you said bluntly. 

Sirius nodded. “Exactly. Maybe it’s time for you to go after someone else for a little while. There’re _loads_ of girls that would _love_ to go out with you! Like [Name] here!” 

“ _[Name]_?” 

“ _Me_?” 

Suddenly, James looked at you in a way he never had before—like he had just realized that very moment that among his group of friends, you were the only girl. You wished that you had had the chance to spend more time on your hair that morning. Your distress was so great that you couldn’t meet his eyes—so, instead, you glowered at Sirius for getting you into this situation. Sirius smirked right back. Evidently, _he_ had not forgotten what your sisters had been shouting earlier. How he knew they weren’t lying and had absolutely gotten into your diary over the summer, you didn’t know. 

The other two boys weren’t about to come to your rescue either. Remus had already stuck his nose too deeply into the folds of his Care of Magical Creatures textbook for you to expect him to surface for anything less than the food trolley. Peter, of course, had become too swept up in the goings on to consider that _you_ might not be too thrilled with said goings on. 

“I don’t know,” James said at last, then hurried to say, “Not that I don’t like you, [Name]! You’re great. You’re just…not Evans.” 

“Right. _I_ have better taste in friends. Glad to know you haven’t gone so mad you can’t tell the difference between us anymore,” you said. 

This statement did exactly what you wanted it to: It made James (and Peter) laugh. At least someone did; _you_ had never felt less like laughing. That was that, then. James would never notice you as more than a friend because—according to him—you weren’t Evans. 

That _should_ have been that, at any rate. Sirius never could just let something go. 

“I have a proposal,” he announced, and plowed right on before you could interrupt, “I’m tired of you whinging on about Evans all the time, Prongs. It’s unbecoming. You may have this _one_ big plan of yours to impress her. If it doesn’t work, then I want you to take [Name] on a date.” 

“Don't _I_ get a say in this?” you asked peevishly. 

“No. What do you say, James?” 

James considered you for a second time. The hazel eyes behind his glasses sparkled with amusement. At your expense? At Evans'? Who knew? Then he reached across the aisle to shake Sirius’ hand. 

“At least you’ve picked me a pretty one for this, Padfoot. Not that it matters. Once Evans sees what I’ve got planned this year, she’s going to fall head over heels for me.” 

“Sure, Prongs. But if it doesn’t, do you _promise_ to take [Name] out?” 

“I promise. You can all keep me honest. Now about our first prank…” 

Yes, the start of that September felt much like the previous four. The weather, the train ride, James’ plots for the upcoming weeks all were very familiar by then. Maybe _something_ was about to change for you that year anyway—for good or for bad was impossible to say. But you _did_ notice James casting furtive looks at you long into the Welcoming Feast. Was it the possibility of something between you on _his_ mind as he went to sleep that night? Or did the usual images of Lily Evans dance through his head? You couldn't know, and that kept you up that night for a long, long time.


	43. Save [Draco Malfoy]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got asked to do more from Camera/Forgiven. Still not sure why, but here you go.

Pansy Parkinson just couldn't leave well enough alone, could she? It was not enough for her to make you miserable in your own common room year after year. It was not enough for her to smash your alarm clock while you slept, nor to go through your trunk during your resulting detention with McGonagall for tardiness. It was not enough for _Pansy_ to know you were a no-good witch either. No, _everyone_ needed to know that, including the _one_ instructor that gave you decent grades. And for _what_? Daring to know Draco before she did? She could _have_ him as far as you were concerned, but what was done was already done. 

You stood outside of Professor Umbridge's office door with ice running through your veins. The thought of fleeing into the Forbidden Forest did occur to you. Nothing in there, be it death or centaurs, could be worse than whatever awaited you in the room beyond. No one would miss you after you were gone, either—not your parents, not the teachers, not even Draco. Hell, Colin would probably consider your disappearance a relief. 

Before you could act on your decision to run off, however, the heavy wooden door pulled open. The girl doing the pulling was none other than Pansy herself, spotting an uglier-than-usual leer that only grew when a sugary-sweet voice called out from behind her: 

"Ah, Miss [L Name]. You're here. Very good. Please enter." 

A braver soul than yours might still have tried to escape. You instead crossed the threshold into the violently pink room. Pansy shut the door behind you with a smart _snap_ , and not even a million technicolored kitten plates could have soothed you then. 

Pansy was not the only one in the room with you and your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. One of your other roommates, Millicent Bulstrode, stood at attention beside the desk, as did another, older girl you knew was in Slytherin with you, but whose name you couldn't place. All three of them wore the badge that marked them as members of the Inquisitorial Squad. Your anxiety mounted. 

"I presume that you know why I have called you here this evening?" Professor Umbridge asked, in the same sweet, singsong voice she used on most students. 

So focused had you been on being trapped with two of your regular tormentors that you'd nearly forgotten the professor was there. You snapped your focus back on her, then found yourself unable to answer. Though your mouth opened, no sound came out. Why _were_ you there? This could hardly be a detention since there was an audience. 

The other girls giggled into the extended silence. 

"Miss [L Name]? I am waiting." 

"No, ma'am," you managed to say. 

This only caused Professor Umbridge to blink. "No?" 

"No, ma'am. I don't know why I'm here. You told me to come to your office at this time as I was leaving class this afternoon. Did I do something to disrupt your lesson?" 

Your father's careful instructions did you some good here, at least. The bland, polite way you spoke threw Professor Umbridge off—that, and the fact that you _didn't_ disrupt her lesson. How could you? You never _spoke_ in her lessons, or anyone else's for that matter. 

"No, my dear. Not my _lessons,_ " she said. 

"Have my grades in your classes slipped?" 

"Of course not! They are Ministry approved, and a girl of your lineage could hardly be expected to fail at the level I am being forced to teach at this year." 

"Then I'm sorry, but I've really no idea why I'm here." You glanced at Pansy. "Or why _she_ is." 

Having come at last to the subject she wanted you to (or thereabouts), Professor Umbridge slumped in relief. "Miss Parkinson is here because she has brought to me some very alarming information about you. _You_ are here because I wanted to give you the chance to dispute it." 

Pansy grinned. She brushed her elbow against Millicent's side, and the two girls caught each other's eye. You saw nothing funny at all about the situation, but then, you'd seen nothing funny about the Alarm Clock Incident either, nor the Horn-Growing hex that had landed you in the hospital wing for three days, nor the bit with the Canary Creams they'd filched from the Weasley twins. It was highly unlikely you were going to find anything _Pansy_ thought funny yourself. 

"Well?" Professor Umbridge prompted you. 

Again, you realized you'd placed your attention elsewhere. "Well, what?" 

"What do you have to say for yourself?" 

"That depends," you said. 

"What does it depend on?" 

"What it is that Pansy is claiming that I did." 

Finally, Professor Umbridge fixed her bulging eyes on someone else. "Miss Parkinson?" 

"Yes, Professor Umbridge?" said Pansy. 

"Didn't you tell me that Miss [L Name] _knew_ what she was doing?" 

"Oh, she does. Millie and I have proof." 

"Then hand it over, dear. Quickly! Quickly! I can't have her father thinking that I'm pulling his child into my office over someone making a mountain out of a Niffler mound!" 

Unseen by the rest of those in the room, your knees trembled under your weight. That was right. Your father worked with the Minister of Magic. He already knew that Professor Umbridge wanted to see you. Just what sort of Howler awaited you when you got back to your common room (he would never send it with breakfast; he wouldn't like a scene like Molly Weasley's three years back) you hated to think. A quick look at the window showed it was unmanned. Perhaps you could throw yourself through it before things got any worse. 

Too late. Professor Umbridge stood up from her chair in a dizzy. "Oh! Oh my!" Whatever she saw clearly upset her greatly, because she looked in danger of swooning right into one of her shelves of plates. Only Millicent's quick action of helping her around the desk prevented the demise of many glass kittens. 

"I'm sorry to have to be the one to show you this, Professor," Pansy said, patting Professor Umbridge's fat little fingers as they grasped at the desk corner. "I know how much you like Mr. [L Name]." 

Professor Umbridge pressed her free, trembling hand to her heart. The older girl carefully guided her back to her chair. Millicent patted the professor's back, wearing an expression more appropriate for attending a funeral. All the while, Pansy stood there smirking at you. You snarled as your hand wrapped around the wand in your robe pocket. It wasn't likely that you'd be able to do her any real harm, but the point was moot, for Professor Umbridge recovered before you could think of any appropriate curses to fling at Pansy's head. 

"Miss [L Name]! How _dare_ you!" 

Gone was her familiar syrupy tone. She waved a square of developed film in the air, then imperiously beckoned you to approach her. You did so with your cheeks burning. All of a sudden, leaving that photo in Draco's possession seemed like an incredibly stupid idea. It had been nearly a week since your big blowout in the corridor, which had been enough time to give you hope that he'd found your crying pathetic enough to drop the entire issue. Apparently he'd only wanted to lull you into a false sense of security. 

"Professor," you said, "I can explain." 

"Oh, you _can_ , can you?" 

"Yes. I'm _really_ sorry I skipped out on my detention with Professor Hagrid, but he shouldn't have given me one to begin with just for telling Potter off for lying about seeing those Thestrals! Anyway, I just wanted to see Draco fly. It won't happen again. I promise." 

"As though I _care_ whether or not you listen to that half-breed. He will be dealt with accordingly. What I want to know is why you are cavorting with a known supporter of Harry Potter!" 

"What are you—" 

She slapped the photo onto her desk. It was not the one of Draco. Of course. In all your anger over Pansy going through your trunk, you hadn't thought to see if she'd stolen any of the _other_ pictures stashed in there. This one featured Colin himself as he prodded a cauldron of developing solution with his wand. Every single drop of blood in your face drained away. 

"When Miss Parkinson came to me with this information, I admit that I was reluctant to believe her." Professor Umbridge stood, walked to her window, and began to pace back and forth. "I even had Cornelius speak to your father about the matter. _He_ could not believe the claim either. A girl like you ought not to be spending her time with a boy like that!" 

"He was only helping me with a project—" 

"What help could you possible receive from a muggle-born? If there is something you are struggling with, I'm sure one of your housemates could help. Why, Miss Parkinson would be delighted to!" 

"Of course, Professor," Pansy said piously. 

"Mr. Creevey is friendly with Potter. Potter is an enemy not only of myself, but of the Minister of Magic, and therefore the entire Wizarding World! Thus, Mr. Creevey is _also_ working to undermine us. Tell me, Miss [L Name], what are you _really_ doing with him? Do you _believe_ Mr. Potter when he says there are dark wizards out to get him?" 

"No!" While you _were_ aware Potter wasn't as mad as most believed, this was not the company to admit that in front of, nor to tell just what you'd been doing with Colin in secret all year. In desperation, you went on, "What we're doing isn't even breaking Educational Decree Number Twenty-four!" 

Professor Umbridge turned to face you with her hands clasped behind her back. "Miss Parkinson has just produced evidence indicating that you are aiding and abetting members of Potter's renegade group. Your adherence to any Educational Decree is the least of my worries. You _will_ tell me where they are meeting and exactly what they are up to. Professor Dumbledore may not give me the authority to expel you should you not, but I assure you that to refuse to give me answers will cause things to go very poorly for you." 

You gaped at her. 

"Things will also go very poorly for your family. After all, an apple does not fall far from the tree. You lying for Potter makes it very possible your father is lying for Professor Dumbledore. Think _very_ carefully over how your behavior might affect his position in the Ministry from here on out." 

What were you supposed to _say_? You'd never considered how your poor choices might reflect upon your mum and dad! But Colin had never _told_ you about what he did with Potter. It mattered so little to you that you'd never thought to ask. It wasn't as though he trusted you enough to offer you an invitation. In fact, the existence of such a group had been unknown to you until Draco brought it up the other night. 

She sighed and shook her head. "I _had_ hoped you would take this opportunity to redeem yourself. You might be a pure-blood, but I _will_ get what I want. Miss Parkinson, Miss Bulstrode, please restrain Miss [L Name].” They did, closing in on you and grasping one of your arms each with as much power as they could muster. “Miss Runcorn, you go fetch Professor Snape. Tell him I need—" 

A sharp knock on the door cut her off. A moment of confusion followed where everyone else in the room looked at one another. 

"Well? Answer it!" Professor Umbridge snapped. 

The Runcorn girl hurried to obey. Standing there illuminated by the torches in the dark hall was none other than: 

"Mr. Malfoy? You are supposed to be on patrol." 

"I am," he said as he stepped inside. "I just remembered something that I needed to tell you." 

"Can it not wait? I am in the middle of an interrogation." 

Draco's gray eyes flashed toward you. Seeing him brought you no relief. "That's what I needed to talk to you about, Professor. See, Pansy told me this morning over breakfast what she wanted to tell you, and I thought told her what's really going on, but it must have slipped her mind when she gave you her report." 

Pansy's eyes seemed in danger of popping out of her skull. "Draco?" 

He did not remove his gaze from the professor's face. Millicent's already firm grip on your wand arm grew tight to point of pain. You whimpered, which only caused Pansy to thrust the top of her wand straight into your spine. 

Professor Umbridge looked a little taken aback. "You have information for me about Miss [L Name]'s associate with known criminals?" 

Draco nodded. 

"Then by all means, illuminate us." 

"I'm the one that told her to get in close with Creevey." 

" _Draco_!" Pansy said again. He ignored her. 

If Professor Umbridge was shocked before, that was nothing compared to how she looked then. Her protuberant little eyes swept from your face and back to his repeatedly. Thankfully, you were too busy staring holes into the back of his blond head for you to give away just how surprised _you_ were by the information yourself. 

" _You_ did?" she asked. 

"Yeah. I figured he'd know what Potter was up to and where he was holding his meetings. He's practically been on Potter like someone cast a permanent sticking charm to him since our second year. Sending someone in to make nice with him seemed like the best way to get him to talk." 

"Well...yes. I'll admit the idea has some merit. All the same, you should have brought it up with the Inquisitorial Squad. _I_ could have assigned someone more appropriate for the job." 

"You're right, Professor, and I'm very sorry for sneaking around. I just thought it would be better if fewer people knew about the plan. After all, none of us knows just how many students Potter has got working for him. And if Creevey had any idea he was talking to a member of the Inquisitorial Squad..." 

Draco did not finish his sentence. He didn't have to. The badges pinned to every member of the Inquisitorial Squad's chest made plain their allegiance to everyone in the school. If you'd ever worn one, Colin would have shut you out for good. Professor Umbridge's eyes narrowed in thought. 

"I see," she said slowly. "And you chose Miss [L Name] for such an assignment because?" 

"Because we had a run in with Creevey when we were kids. She had a good reason to try talking to him. And I trust her," he answered, in the same bland tone he used on most of his instructors. 

The pressure with which Millicent still held your arm caused prickles to surge up and down your arm. For once, you were grateful for the distraction, as it kept you from being too frightened to think. This helped quite a bit when Professor Umbridge suddenly spoke to you: 

"Miss [L Name], is this true?" 

"Uh—" 

You saw Draco give a very minuscule nod of the head without turning to look at you. Everyone else in the room was too busy waiting for your answer to notice. 

"Yes, ma'am," you said quickly. 

She let out a relieved, girlish giggle. "Of course it is. Mr. Malfoy is not a liar. You should have told me earlier!" 

"I...I didn't want to give him away," you mumbled halfheartedly. Your heart pounded in your throat. _Draco_ might have been an accomplished liar, but you had no such great talent. If Professor Umbridge suspected you for one a second, _he_ had just ensured he would land in the boiling cauldron himself. 

"I understand completely, dear. I only wish—Miss Parkinson! Miss Bulstrode! Release Miss [L Name] at once!" 

"But—" Pansy began. 

"Do not test my patience, Miss Parkinson. You should have told me this yourself. Instead, you have very nearly ruined the reputation of an innocent pure-blood! You ought to be ashamed of yourself." 

It was as though your skin turned red hot, that was how quickly Pansy let you go. Millicent did so a little more reluctantly, but without the fuss. Rubbing at the bruise you were no doubt developing where the latter's hand had rested, you took a large enough step away from them and toward the teacher that you did not think yourself still at risk of being snatched. 

"I am _so_ very sorry, dear." Professor Umbridge placed a thick hand on the small of your back to guide you toward one of the desk chairs. "It was not my intention to make a fuss. Can I get you anything? Tea? Gillywater?" 

"No, thank you." 

"Are you quite sure? I would love to have a little chat with you and Mr. Malfoy about your plan. How is it coming along? What has he told you?" 

You opened your mouth, but of course no falsehood was forthcoming. Before the pause could become too suspicious, Draco stepped in once more: 

"He hasn't given us anything yet. But we're close. Aren't we, [Name]?" 

"Yes!" you said, a little quickly with how pleased you were at being able to speak again. "Yes, I'm sure he'll be giving me what you want any day now." 

"Perhaps we could discuss strategy? Just the _three_ of us?" she suggested, with a pointed look at the trio of girls still standing a few feet away. 

Draco took your shoulder in his hand. "No, thank you, Professor. I really ought to get back to my patrol. I just wanted to make sure you knew the truth before anything _unpleasant_ could happen." 

"Yes. I appreciate that. You'll give your father my apologies as well, won't you, [Name]? I'm sure he'll understand. We're just trying to ensure that Cornelius' vision is seen through here, and Potter is making it ever so difficult." 

"Of course," you said automatically. 

"And don't forget to tell me the minute you have any information to pass on from the Creevey boy." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

She didn't seem to notice the way you answered in the shortest amount of words possible. If any of the other girls did, they were too cowed to say so. This came as something of a relief to you, since any longer responses would have required more thought process than you were capable of giving anything just then. 

"I ought to get back on patrol," Draco cut in smoothly. "I'll see to it that [Name] gets back to the common room without incident." 

"Excellent idea. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy." 

With his hand still on your shoulder, he steered you out the door, right past the stunned expressions of Pansy, Millicent, and Miss Runcorn. Were those tears you saw sparkling in the first's hazel eyes? You could not look at her long enough to tell for sure. Draco did not need to be _quite_ so forceful in his leading either way; it was taking everything within you to keep yourself from sprinting back to your dormitory...not that there would be much safety there either. Surely Pansy had something _else_ up her sleeve, some more horrid picture you'd crammed under five years' worth of missed assignments and lost potion ingredients. 

Sure enough, you heard her try to come after you both. "Draco! Why would you—" 

"Miss Parkinson, _you_ are not dismissed. You and I need to have a little chat about just why you lied to me this morning about Miss [L Name]'s activities." 

The door snapped shut behind you, but Draco did not let you go. He marched you down the corridor and several staircases without a uttering a single word. His silence might have frightened you more than his sudden appearance had to begin with. Were you in very much trouble? Your anxiety had you nearly breathless when at last you were released. You waited for him to remind you how to stupid you were, or to suggest you run off to Potter, or to tell you to pack your things before someone worse than Pansy tried to find you. 

Draco did none of these things. After about half a minute had passed, you turned to see if he even remained behind you. He did, though you'd obviously taken long enough to bore him, for he was examining his fingernails with his usual haughty expression. It didn't take you long to figure out exactly what he was waiting for. 

"Thank you," you said, not without sincerity. 

"You're welcome." 

"No. Really. I...things were about to get bad. But why did you...?" 

"Help you?" Draco shrugged. "Pansy was out of line, that's all." 

"She going to be _really_ mad now, though." 

He shrugged again. Why not? She would probably not be slinging new hexes and curses at _him_ over the coming weeks. "She'll get over it. Like I said, she was out of line. I told her that picture was nothing to worry about, but she wouldn't listen." 

Was this truly happening? Draco siding with _you_ over his precious girlfriend? You half-expected Pansy herself to jump out from behind the nearby statue of the one-eyed witch to proclaim that she had caught you in the act of lying. In fact, you stared hard enough at the statue to make your eyes water...but Pansy did not appear. 

"Here." 

Something thin pressed against the skin of your wrist. Looking down, you found Draco holding out yet another photograph. A great swell of nausea swept over you from head to toe. Fortunately it was _not_ a third example of your torrid behavior, only the one Pansy gave him the week before of him with his quidditch team. 

"Take it," he said waspishly, when your inaction continued for too long. 

You swiftly pocketed the object. 

"You might as well have it back," Draco went on. "But if you behave smarter than you have been, you won't be storing anymore pictures in your trunk. Pansy isn't going to give up easily. She'll look there again." 

The very thought made you tremble. What _else_ lay forgotten in the bowels of your school debris? "I'll stop having lessons with Colin. He won't be upset. It'll be safer that way. No more suspicion." 

"After all the trouble I just went to? No. You keep talking to Creevey. I meant what I said. He has information we need. Besides, if Professor Umbridge finds out that I lied for you, it's more likely to wind up on _your_ head than mine." 

"But—" 

"What do you care more about, [Name]?" he asked impatiently. "It's time to decide where your loyalties lie. I lied for you tonight because I used to trust you, but I'm not going to do it a second time. Things are going to change around here, whether that's because of Umbridge or not. Whose side are you going to be on?" 

He was right. You _knew_ he was right. Whatever the _Prophet_ said to the contrary, whatever line Professor Umbridge wanted all your fellow students to swallow, the life you had known up until then was rapidly drawing to a close. Colin _had_ been kind to you over the course of the year: forgiving you for your childish cruelty, teaching you the one skill you cared to know, even risking his own neck to stay out past curfew when you couldn't make it to your lessons on time... 

...but _he_ would not be benefited by whatever regime came next. _Draco_ would. Not to mention that Draco had just risked his own status to rescue you in a way far more pressing than anything Colin risked. What were house points compared to whatever potion Professor Umbridge had very nearly stuffed down your throat? 

"Okay," you murmured. That was it. "Okay." 

That was all Draco needed. "Good. I've got to get back on patrol. Stay out of Pansy's way if you know what's good for you. And if anybody asks about your 'mission,' just tell them that you answer to _me_. Because you do now." 

He paused only long enough to see you nod. Then he turned to walk up the corridor. You watched his back until the whole of him disappeared around a corner. After that, you stood all alone in the vacant hall. It was a wonder that the events of the night didn't swallow you whole right then and there. Perhaps you were learning. Not wanting to chance Pansy or anyone else seeing you shake to pieces, you held yourself together for the duration of your walk back to the Slytherin common room. Only once you'd returned to your four poster and drawn the curtains did you allow yourself to cry. 

Everything that had happened indicated that you'd made the right decision. You could continue your lessons with Colin; your father would be told you were a good pure-blood girl; and if you managed to get some real information, you'd earn some major points with whoever got hold of Hogwarts next. Draco had practically ensured your safety so long as you kept your head down. So why did you feel even more wretched then than when he had accused you of being a blood traitor?


	44. Lost [Percy Weasley]

An exhaustion deeper than any you'd ever felt before sank into your bones the moment you apparated home that dark summer night. Not a single light was on to greet you. Shadows pooled across the wood floor of your flat, and in the state you were in, it was a miracle that you muttered " _lumos_ " instead of " _stupefy_ " when you spotted them. Only when you could see these shadows were cast by nothing more than the horribly dust-covered furniture in your sitting room did you unwind. 

You did not always behave in such paranoid fashion. It used to be that shadows were shadows and dust was dust. This was not the first time you'd ever returned home drained and well after midnight, nor would it be the last. All your auror training often kept you at the Ministry after dark...but you'd finished all that _months_ ago. _Reality_ was what had you rattled that evening. Any chunk of black where one shouldn't be could be a Death Eater nowadays—or something even worse. 

Not living on your own might have made this return a little more tolerable. Your wandlight revealed nothing more than your familiar home, dust and cobwebs and all, and yet you couldn't stop yourself from feeling on edge. A cup of chamomile tea was called for, you decided, followed by as much sleep as you could manage before you had to get back to the office. Morning might necessitate a pepper-up potion as well. You'd been up for nearly twenty hours already; three hours of sleep probably wouldn't get you back on your feet. If there had been one thing Dumbledore and Moody had made abundantly clear that day, it was how important it was for you to not arouse any suspicion whatsoever as to where your loyalties lay to your coworkers in the auror department. 

The process of setting some water to boil thankfully did not take much thought on your part. You stared blearily at the kettle afterward, too tired to try any magic to speed the process up. Suddenly, there came a loud knock at your door. The clock above your stove read 3:35. Who could be coming to see you at this hour? Perhaps the emergency Dumbledore feared had already occurred and you were needed elsewhere. Unfortunately, that was not the only possibility. 

With your hand wrapped firmly around your wand, you crept to the front of your house. Whoever stood outside knocked again, louder this time. Did Death Eaters knock? You thought not, but still thrust your wand out in front of you as you pulled the door open. 

"[Name]!" said the red-haired man standing on your step. "Thank God you're here!" 

"Percy?" you asked, bewildered, lowering your wand. What was your _fiancé_ doing at your house in the dead of night? He always turned down any of your invitations to stay over. Surely he ought to have thought you'd be fast asleep at this hour! _And_ he didn’t seem to realize how close he’d come to having his face blasted off. 

"May I come in?" he asked. 

"Uh..." 

The shrill shriek of your kettle cut through the night. Your confusion over Percy's behavior would have to wait. Swiftly, you stepped to the side and motioned for him to enter before the noise could wake any of your neighbor's. The _kindest_ thing they could do nowadays was send you howlers about keeping them up at ungodly hours. He hurried right past you. 

"Do you want some tea? It's chamomile," you added, shutting the door. 

"That would be _lovely_. Thank you. You would not _believe_ the night I've had." 

"You, too, huh?" 

"Yes!" He followed you to the kitchen. With your back turned so that you could find a couple of clean mugs in your cupboard, you only heard him collapse into one of the chairs at your table. "My _father_ , you know. The _things_ he said to me." 

This was an ordinary thing for Percy to go on about, so you didn't think much of his complaint as you poured tea into the waiting cups. Then, gripping one red mug for Percy and one yellow one for you, you turned around to offer him his tea. 

"Thank you," Percy said again as he took his from you, but you hardly heard him. You were a little too distracted to bother with unnecessary niceties after what you'd just noticed. 

"Perce...Why do you have all that baggage with you?" 

"Hm?" He lifted his eyebrows, which was about all he could do with the scalding tea held up to his mouth as it was. "Oh, that. Well, those are just my things, since I'll be moving in." 

"Since you'll be—What on _earth_ are you talking about?" 

He must have had a few of those bags in a smaller bag when he walked in the door. Your sleep-deprived brain had only seen a briefcase, something Percy was known to carry around with him at all times—probably even to bed, though you couldn't say so for sure. Now what looked to be five bags of various size and shape lay heaped about his feet and across your tiny table. You had to squeeze around them to get to the other chair, and then there was hardly any room for you to set your cup. 

"Is it such a surprise? It isn't as though we haven't talked about it before," Percy said. 

"I don't think we _have_ talked about it before. We've _argued_ about it before, and _I_ always lost." No matter how many times you invited your boyfriend of two years to so much as stay the night, he refused. Percy was a gentleman; it was one of the reasons you liked him so much, since so many men your age, well... _weren't_. 

He hooked a finger around the collar of his robes—the same robes he'd been wearing when you'd seen him very briefly at work that morning. They seemed to have a new stain down the front of them, too, a stain that reminded you strongly of the sort of marks left by a well-placed Bat Bogey Hex. 

"You're right. And, well, I've done a lot of thinking about it," he said, eyes darting every which way, "and I decided that I was in the wrong. Why _shouldn't_ we move in together? We're about to be _married_ for Merlin's sake!" 

Even in the dim lighting case by the few candles you'd lit to see your way to the stove, you could see the red creeping through Percy's face. You reached your way through his things to put your hand over his that rested on the table surface. "Percy, what's the matter?" 

"Why do you ask? _Should_ something be the matter?" 

"Because if you'd really just decided out of the blue that you're ready to move in with me, you could have waited until the morning to come by." 

"Isn't it the morning? By my count, it's about four o' clock." 

You didn't move your hand from his, but you did half-lower your eyelids. This kind of look was enough to get him to give in. With a groan, Percy hung his head, took off his glasses with one hand, and shook you off to rub his eyes with the other. 

"All right, all right. Remember what I said about my father?" he asked. 

"Yes." You drew the word out. 

Percy took an enormous breath in and cast his gaze toward the ceiling rather than your face. "Well, he...he kicked me out." 

"He _what_?" 

"They all did. Couldn't wait to see the back of me. I suppose I should have seen it coming," he added ruefully. "I've always been the black sheep of the family, and now they've got a good reason to pretend I never existed." 

That didn't sound like the Weasleys at all. Sure, Fred and George gave Percy a harder time than necessary, and Ginny could be a bit waspish, and Ron was occasionally rude—but what family _didn't_ have those kinds of relationships? Mrs. Weasley would _never_ kick Percy out. Never, ever. _He_ was the child of hers that she could depend on. 

"But _why_ would your father kick you out?" you asked. Arthur Weasley especially was kindness incarnate. None of this added up. 

"Over this completely ridiculous affair with Albus Dumbledore!" 

The sudden crack of his voice filled your kitchen. Behind the lenses of his replaced glasses a fire danced in Percy's blue eyes. You recoiled a little; he didn't notice. He seemed to have come to the crux of the issue. The unfairness of it launched him to his feet, where, though there was not enough room to do so when the room _wasn't_ crammed full of bags, he began to pace. 

"It's just absolutely _ridiculous_! You know, sometimes I wonder if he's really my father. How someone like _him_ could have raised someone like _me_ is a mystery for the ages!" 

A sinking sensation filled your stomach. He had said this sort of thing before, but not in the same state of agitation he was in just now. You _knew_ Mr. Weasley. You _liked_ Mr. Weasley. This was far beyond Percy's usual frustration with his father, and you had a sneaking suspicion you knew exactly what this was all about. Percy continued to pace, back and forth, back and forth. If you could have reached out to touch him so that he would stop his frantic movement, you would have. Unfortunately, you were jammed into a corner behind all of his luggage and couldn't quite get your arm out far enough. 

"And it's not enough that I have to labor day after day under _his_ poor reputation. _Obviously_ the son of a man who wants nothing more than to moon over muggles and their creations from dawn 'till dusk wants nothing more himself! But no!" He ran his fingers through his red hair with a wild laugh that sent shivers up your spine. " _Now_ Dad's got to make trouble for everyone for no good reason at all." 

"I don't think your dad is making trouble for no good reason. Dumbledore's got reasons, and your dad's would be the same, right?" you asked. 

Percy froze with his back toward you. Then, very slowly, he lowered his hands to his sides and turned around. 

"What are you talking about?" he asked. 

"What are _you_ talking about?" 

"Are you telling me that you _believe_ all these lies Dumbledore and Potter are spouting?" 

"Since when do you call Harry 'Potter'?" 

"Since he made it clear that he plans to join Dumbledore in destabilizing the Ministry!" 

Now it was _your_ turn to laugh. Surely Percy wasn't serious. Harry had been visiting his home during the summers off and on for years now, and Dumbledore had gone as far as to ask for Fudge's help! But Percy's aghast expression made it clear that this was no laughing matter. He _was_ serious. Frowning, you extricated yourself from the table. 

"He's a fifteen-year-old boy, Perce," you said," and he never seemed all that interested in overthrowing the Ministry to _me_." 

" _You_ are not privy to the same information as I am as now that I've been promoted to junior assistant to the Minister," he said stiffly. 

"What're they saying up there that makes you so convinced Harry and Dumbledore are plotting something?" 

"Oh, please. Isn't it obvious enough? You are still keeping up with _The Prophet_ , aren't you? Unlike my _parents_. All this codswallop about Dark Wizards and graveyards. There's not a grain of truth in it." 

It must have been the lateness of the hour causing your brain to rattle like a caged Cornish Pixie. You stared at Percy, unable to think of a single explanation for his bizarre behavior. He was not like the rest of the Weasley family, that you knew—but he had never been _stupid_ , or quite so cruel. With your brows still pinched together, you approached him, pressing a palm to the side of his face as you did. His mouth half-opened, but you didn't give him a chance to say anything more. Instead, you kissed him and wrapped your arms around his neck. 

"I don't mind if you want to crash on the couch tonight," you said when you were done, hand still on his face, "but _try_ talking to your dad tomorrow, please? Before you make any rash decisions. Our wedding's in less than a month, and there's no reason to suddenly move in together if you're just overreacting." 

"I am _not_ overreacting," he insisted. 

"Okay. Just talk to him tomorrow. If he's still being obstinate, obviously you're welcome to move in." 

During the course of your kiss, Percy had put his hands on your hips. You thought that meant he forgave you for arguing and that you could both get some much-needed sleep, but when you tried to step away from him, he used his hands to anchor you in place. 

"What are you—" 

"You haven't answered my question," he said. 

" _What_ question?" 

" _Do_ you believe Albus Dumbledore's lies?" 

Your eyes fixed directly on his face. Rarely had you seen him so determined. "They aren't lies," you said. 

"He is telling everyone that You-Know-Who is back!" 

"Because he _is_ back." 

"What proof does anyone have of that? Just Dumbledore's word and the body of a Hogwarts student who was last seen in the company of Potter—a boy who on numerous occasions has proven mentally unstable, and whom we _know_ Dumbledore has lied to protect before." 

"Since _when_?" 

Percy's blue eyes rove softly across your face before, sighing, he let you go. He then took one of your wrists in his hand, guided you over to his vacated chair, and pressed you into it. 

"Potter got away with a lot more than he should have these past few years." Kneeling in front of you, he held both your hands. His were warm and moist. "The Minister has told me some...concerning things about the boy and Dumbledore's relationship, and what Dumbledore's leadership is doing to Hogwarts. It's nothing that we can't resolve if we act quickly, but the Minister needs all of us on board. He's certain Dumbledore already has spies in the Ministry, my father included, no doubt." 

If only Percy knew. You narrowed your eyes, a clear warning that would typically have put him in a hasty silence. That night, however, he just went right on: 

"If we don't all stand united, there's a very good chance that Dumbledore will stage a coup. He _wants_ us to fight, [Name], don't you see? We're playing into his hands like this." 

You rocketed to your feet, upsetting Percy's balance. "Do _not_ talk to me like I am a child," you snapped. 

"I only want you to understand the present situation," he protested as he readjusted his glasses and blinked owlishly up at you. 

"There _is_ no situation! Not the kind that Fudge has dreamed up, anyway. We are in _danger_ , Percy. Why can't you see that?" 

"See? He's already got you seeing Death Eaters where there are none!" 

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Name isn't stupid. The Minister is the one playing into _his_ hands with the way he's acting." 

He stood up, still blinking. "So you _do_ believe that he's returned? You actually _trust_ a boy who's been telling tales about his heroism since he was eleven?" 

"What reason would either of them have to lie about You-Know-Who?" 

"Honor. Glory. Making it easier for Dumbledore to take over the Ministry." 

"Percy, you aren't being sensible." 

" _Me_?" he asked incredulously. " _You're_ the one not making any sense! Good Lord, [Name], Dumbledore allowed Potter to _murder_ a boy for this!" 

"There's no way Dumbledore would let someone _die_ for a power play. He feels awful about Diggory dying." 

"Oh, really? And how would you know that?" 

"I did go to Hogwarts, too, remember? I _know_ what Dumbledore is like." 

It was an obvious lie; you'd never spent all that much time with Dumbledore over your seven years at Hogwarts. You never stepped a toe out of line, never served a single detention. Why would Dumbledore have ever _needed_ to speak to you? Telling the truth was impossible, though, when Percy was making it more and more obvious where his loyalties lay. 

"Well, I am very sorry to ruin your view of him, but it's the truth. Maybe he didn't _tell_ Potter to kill the Diggory boy, but he'll use it to his advantage." 

"Kind of like how Fudge is using the fact a boy died on _your_ watch to make you grateful enough to _lie_ for him?" 

"What—I had nothing to do with—The inquiry proved—How _dare_ you accuse me of lying!" 

"What about Ginny?" you pressed. "Do you think _she's_ lying about what happened to her her first year at Hogwarts? Do you think Dumbledore pressed _her_ into service, too?" 

Red bloomed hot and dark in Percy's cheeks. "Ginny's always had a thing for Potter. She'd say whatever he told her to. Whatever happened down there had nothing to do with You-Know-Who or anything of the sort. Why, the Chamber of Mysteries itself is a myth!" 

"Really, Percy? Your own _sister_?" 

"My whole family has bought into this madness. _I_ will not be so foolish. _I_ know the truth, and I will stick to it." 

His voice was filled with conviction, that much was true. But if Percy really believed what he was saying, why couldn't he seem to look you in the face all of a sudden? 

"You won't be so reasonable, you mean," you said coldly. 

His eyes went wide. "[Name]!" 

"I can't _believe_ you. I thought you were smarter than this." 

"I could say the same thing to you." 

"No, you couldn't. Because _I'm_ not so blinded by ambition that I'm willing to throw my friends and family under the Knight Bus." 

"You're really going to side with Dumbledore? Over the Ministry? Over _me_?" 

"I never said that. What I am going to side with is the _real_ truth." 

"Truth!" 

This conversation was over—as were a number of other things. Dumbledore and Moody had warned you things would get difficult if you chose to join the Order of the Phoenix. They just hadn't implied it would happen so soon. You pulled your wand from your pocket, gave it a wave, and sent all of Percy's bags into the air. 

"What _are_ you doing?" he asked. 

"You. Can't. Stay. Here." Each of your words were punctuated with a flick of your wand, sending a bag straight into Percy's chest every time. He coughed and staggered under the weight. Before he could recover, you sent another spell that slammed the front door open, then a second that shoved him right across the threshold. 

For a minute, Percy stared at you with his mouth opening and closing repeatedly, like some sort of muggle fish trapped behind glass. Then he pulled himself together and his back up straight. "I hope you know what you're doing, choosing my family over me." 

"I'm not choosing anyone over you. I don't know what your family said. But I do know that you aren't the same man that I agreed to marry this time last year. Crouch changed you, Percy. This whole affair with the Triwizard Tournament...you're different. You're _desperate._ " 

"I do _not_ have to stand here and take this from my own fiancée!" 

With your eyes burning as badly as they were, it was impossible for you to tell whether they were doing so from exhaustion or tears. Percy even seemed to _look_ different now. Once you had thought him handsome and smart and diligent. Now you wondered if Fred and George had always been right about him after all. Slowly, you turned your gaze from his white face to your hand that rested on the door. A ring glittered there, one you'd always known, deep down, Percy couldn't have afforded without ingratiating himself into his workplace so quickly. 

"No," you agreed as you gently twisted the ring off your finger. The skin beneath it was paler than that of the rest of your hand; you'd hardly ever taken the ring off since he had given it to you. You held it out to him, but Percy did not take it. 

"What are you doing?" he asked in clip tones. 

"You don't have take this from your fiancée, because I'm not your fiancée anymore." 

"You're _breaking off our engagement_?" 

"Yes. I think I am." You could hardly believe it yourself. Things seemed so dreamlike that it almost felt like someone else was inhabiting your body—but you knew it couldn't be the Imperius Curse. There was no one telling you to break up with Percy, only a feeling deep inside your gut. 

"You can't! You're—you're going to regret this!" 

This earned him a wan smile. "Probably. But I can't see myself with a man that's too busy licking Cornelius Fudge's boots to see the truth. Or one that will claim their family is lying to make themselves safe. If you ever come to your senses, you can come back, but I..." Your breath in shuddered with the sudden emotion clotting your throat. "I think it would be best if we take a break for now. We obviously don't see eye to eye on what's going on here." 

All the fight seemed to drain out of Percy at once. He looked tired, perhaps more tired even than you felt. Wearily, he lifted his one free hand so that you could drop the ring inside it. It disappeared into his robes within seconds. 

"If...if that's what you want, [Name]." 

"It is." 

"Well, then." He pressed his glasses up his nose in his most pompous manner. "I suppose you're right. I can't see myself with a woman as delusional as you are. I take it _you'll_ be calling to cancel the caterer and the band and all the rest?" 

"Sure." 

After a nod, he turned to leave—but then twisted back before you could close the door behind you. "Goodbye, [Name]. I will see you at work in the morning?" 

"Of course." 

It looked as though he wanted to say something more, but what else was there to say? You thought the words you'd both exchanged that night pretty well covered it: Percy chose to believe Fudge; you chose to stand with Dumbledore. He didn't stay long after that. You thought you saw a flicker of something—perhaps regret?—in his expression before he awkwardly pulled his wand out from his robes, waved it once, and disapparated with a loud _crack_ you were sure was going to earn you another noise complaint come the morning. 

The neighborhood echoed with his absence. You entire life did. As you turned away from the door once you'd shut out the night for good, it was to see signs of Percy all over your flat: his untouched cup of chamomile tea on table, his extra pair of glasses sitting on the mantle, and the basket of returned RSVP letters for your wedding waiting for cataloging on the kitchen counter. Cleaning it all up that night, you realized, was impossible. Work began in less than three hours—and there you'd see not only Percy, who would be surely scrutinizing your behavior from this point on, but also all the people that would want to know why you'd called the wedding off. 

The consequences of your actions swept over you all at once. You could feel the weight of them dragging you down. If you let them, they would have pushed you to the point of drowning. Instead of letting them, you ran to your bedroom, leaving the tea cups untouched in the kitchen, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it with your wand. Then you threw yourself onto your unmade bed without so much as bothering to change out of your robes or wiggle under your sheets. If you had given up _this_ much in less than twelve hours since joining the Order of the Phoenix, you didn't want to think about what further sacrifices you might be expected to make once the sun fully made it over that pink horizon out your window. The ones you made that night would have to be enough for now.


	45. Soul [Regulus Black]

Once upon a time, being a member of the "Noble and Most Ancient" House of Black _meant_ something. To be its heir meant something _more_. Being the youngest of two sons, Regulus Black felt all the importance of this lofty position the moment it was bestowed upon him. His parents trusted him to lead, to continue their family name, to make the _right_ decisions. Their older son had disappointed them one too many times, and only that had placed the weight of this responsibility on Regulus' back. He would not— _could_ not—disappoint them in the same way. 

Or so he'd vowed, once upon a time. How quickly things like honor and purity and duty faded once exposed to light. When evil was exposed, all else seemed to diminish. All good things did, he'd come to realize: things like love and courage and wisdom, too. Regulus knew he needed to hurry now, before the rising sun stole all those from him on top of everything else. 

_Crack!_

He teetered suddenly on the old step of an equally old, squat country home. His appearance echoed through the empty fields surrounding the house, and Regulus held his breath, waiting for the noise and flickering porch lights to attract attention of the unwanted sort. No one lived close enough to have seen him, but ignoring that sound would have been impossible. 

Before he could recover his senses, the door to the house pulled open. He lifted his wand too late to shield himself. Turned out that there wasn't any need to. There in the harsh muggle lighting stood what had started this entire affair to begin with: a beautiful muggle-born woman with bewitching [color] eyes—eyes which were now huge, round, and trained right on him. 

"Reg?" you said, bewildered. "What're you doing here?" 

"Where are your parents?" he asked. 

"Away, but—" 

He stepped inside, shoving you backward to do so, and pulled the door shut behind him. His mother had raised him to have better manners than that. Regulus always made sure to use them, too, lest he wind up looking like his barbarian of an older brother. Then again, his mother wouldn't exactly approve of him using his good breeding on a girl like you anyway. She'd probably scold him simply for breathing in the same air. 

"Reg." _Now_ you sounded forceful, like usual. "What _are_ you doing? You look terrible. And you can't just show up here in the middle of the night! What if my parents weren't on holiday? You _know_ they don't approve of wizards. Not to mention—why are you staring at me like that?" 

It was true; Regulus _was_ staring. No, it was more than that. He was filling his eyes with you. When he was down there in the middle of that lake, he wanted to have something to remind him of what he was fighting for. If he didn't, there was a very good chance that he would lose his nerve. God, why _couldn't_ this task have been given to Sirius? 

"Regulus, what's _wrong_?" 

You approached him with concern etched into your every feature. When you lifted a hand toward his face (and hesitated, as always, before bringing it closer), he didn't stop you. Then your warm palm pressed against his cheek and all was lost. He screwed up his eyes to prevent you from seeing the tears there, but even in the darkness, there was no way you could have missed them when you stood so close. 

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong." The hoarseness of his voice gave him away. 

"Don't you lie to me. Come on. I'll put some tea on. We'll talk about it." 

His quick, seeker reflexes allowed him to catch your wrist before you could pull away from him. "There's no time." 

"No time for what? Talking?" 

"No. Not anymore. I'm...I'm going to leave, [Name]. Tonight. It's got be tonight." 

A slow stillness came over you, and Regulus wondered how much you knew—or how much you'd guessed. You were so young. This coming year at Hogwarts would be your last. Until the following summer came, though, you were safe—ensconced, for the most part, away from the horrible things the Wizarding World was doing. That you and your family—both parents muggle, both angry and afraid of anything to do with magic—lived so far away was a blessing. But after you left school? Once you became a fully qualified witch? Then there would be no more hiding, no more protection. He had to act now. 

"What happened?" you asked. "What did _he_ do?" 

"You know I can't tell you that. It's for your own sake," he added when your expression twisted into your familiar frustrated frown. "Merlin, [Name], if I won't tell my own parents—" 

"There are a lot of things you don't tell your parents, Reg." 

"That's for your sake too." 

Only then did he realize he still had your hand in his grip. He let you go, though you seemed reluctant to pull your hand back to your chest. How small you were, Regulus thought. How small and beautiful and perfect. If he'd listened to his mother—if he'd been the son he was supposed to be—none of this would be happening. Better for them to go to the grave believing him to still be that perfect son. Better for everyone, really. 

"Don't give me that," you snapped. "It's for _your_ sake. I know how they feel about people like me. Sometimes, you know, I think that _you_ still feel the exact same way!" 

"Don't say that." 

"I'll say whatever I like. I'm not some fragile little delicate pure-blood rose. I can protect myself." 

"Not from this." 

"What _is_ 'this'"? 

"I can't tell you!" 

"Then why did you come here?" 

"To tell you goodbye." 

"To tell me—" The heat in your voice faded away. "It's come to that?" you whispered. 

"It's the only way." 

"You keep saying that, but why? Why does it have to be _you_?" 

"Because I'm the only one who can do it." 

His voice remained calm and level. How Regulus could manage to keep it that way was beyond even his own knowledge. Maybe it was because _you_ wouldn't cry. Tears glittered like diamonds against your lower eyelids, but not a single one fell. 

"You've got to let me do this," he said softly. 

You laughed—though the sound was harder and more unpleasant than usual. "'Let'? _'Let'_? You've already made up your mind!" 

"You're the only one that could convince me not to." 

At once, the false glee on your face went away, replaced by pinched eyebrows and a small frown. "But I can't, can I?" 

Your eyes snapped away from him and toward the tiny dining room to your right. Regulus' stomach dropped. If you _did_ cry—if you _did_ ask him not to go—he wasn't entirely sure that he could bring himself to go through with his plan after all. This would not have been an issue if it were Sirius in his place. Sirius was the brave one, and the smart one, as it turned out. All it would take to stop Regulus from going was one word from a pretty girl. 

Gently, he took your hand gain and pulled you to the left, toward the ugly, unfashionable living room and it's equally ugly, unfashionable couch. How could you stand to return here, to this hovel, with its harsh lighting and lack of magic, every single summer? 

You both sank together onto that couch, which smelled to Regulus like mildew and sour food. This aroma seemed to have no effect on you. Still you looked away from him. Finally, he had no choice but to place his other hand on your cheek and stroke the soft [color] skin there with his thumb. 

"It wouldn't be fair for you to ask me not to do it," he said. " _You're_ the one that got me into this, you know." 

His teasing (as little as he felt like teasing that night) did the trick. You looked right at him with a mouth open to argue, only to stop when you saw the smile he couldn't quite put his heart into. 

"What _are_ you talking about? What's this got to do with _me_?" you asked. 

"When I first saw you fly during a quidditch match, I knew I had to have you. You were the most beautiful witch I'd ever seen. On that broom, you were poetry in motion." 

You bashfully tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. "But my blood wasn't pure enough for a boy from the House of Black." 

"No, and I was absolutely crushed when I found out what kind of family you came from." 

"Not crushed enough to never talk to me again, though." Your chin lifted in defiance. 

"I thought if I talked to you again, I could prove to myself once and for all just how inferior you were to me," he confessed. "Instead, I wanted to talk to you more. I wanted to _be_ with you. I started to regret taking my Mark. Suddenly, when the meetings turned to talk of torture and murder, all the people we hurt had _your_ face." 

What he was saying wasn't pleasant, but it was true. You knew it all. If not, you needed to. After tonight there would be more opportunities for honesty. Regulus took a deep breath before he plunged on in a rush: 

"I've found something out, [Name]. Something he doesn't realize he let slip. Something big. With it, he can be stopped." 

"What is it?" 

"I can't tell you that. I can't tell _anyone_ that," he added at the look on your face. "He can't know that anyone figured it out. Not yet, anyway." 

Your eyes roved around his face, as slowly and as surely as a giant lumbered into its hole after a night of violence. Regulus thought you were looking for something; he just didn't know what. Weakness? A lie? Some sign he didn't mean a word he said? Then you startled him by leaning forward and burying your face in his chest. 

"I'll miss you," you whispered against his robes. 

"I haven't even left to do it yet. You don't know. I might change my mind. _Sirius_ is the brave one. If he knew what I do, he'd have already gone off and fixed the problem, planning be damned. I'm just a coward." 

"Don't you _dare_ call yourself a coward," you said as you lifted your head to glare at him. 

"It's the truth. I've spent my entire life listening to my parents talk about how my family was inherently better than everyone else's, believing what they said about half-bloods and muggle-borns and anyone that wasn't like us. It never occurred to me that they might be wrong. Now that I know they were, it's too late, and I'm—I'm _scared_ , [Name]." 

"Being afraid isn't the absence of courage. You _did_ break away from pure-blood society all on your own. You're going off to— _Forget_ your brother, all right? You're not doing this for glory. You've done everything so far in secret to _protect_ everyone, including Sirius, and you're choosing to let everyone believe you never changed." 

The rasp in your voice made it obvious you had a lump in your throat after all. He hated to see that he had caused you pain. After so much time trying to be the perfect pure-blood son his parents wanted, there was still a lot Regulus had to unlearn—ideas and behaviors that hurt you dreadfully. This? This was worse, because he didn't _have_ to cause you this pain. He _did_ have an out. He _could_ come back to you after that night. 

But no. He really couldn't. Not if he wanted to be the man you claimed he was now. Not so long ago, Regulus wouldn't have thought twice about sacrificing a house-elf for his own comfort...but he also would not have batted an eye as his friends, his idols, and his master killed and tortured innocent beings for the high crime of existing. 

Regulus lifted your hand—which he had never let go of—interlaced his fingers with yours, and kissed each of your knuckles in turn. 

"I love you," he said. 

"I love you, too, Reg. I'm proud of you." 

"Promise me that you'll move on." 

"How could I ever?" 

He chose not to push the issue. Kissing you slowly on the mouth seemed a better use for his own. Staying forever after in your hideous living room would have been so easy. Even when your parents returned, he was of age, and there was nothing stopping him from charming them to stone until he _wanted_ to leave. You wouldn't approve of that, though. Besides, if Regulus never left your house and never did what he needed to, no one would. Sooner or later, whatever safety remained to you here would vanish. 

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done to untangle himself from you that last time. You did not protest. In fact, you said nothing more, because there was nothing more to say. He swallowed, turning to walk to your front door. Opening it wasn't so bad. Neither was stepping out into the dark. But before he could lift his wand, the temptation to look back swallowed him whole. 

For a moment, Regulus thought getting a final look at you was a mistake. Seeing you watching him leave over the top of your sofa, still with unshed tears in your eyes, still sitting perfectly motionless, would surely rob him of his determination. Somehow the image flooded him with determination anew instead. 

_Crack_! 

The memory of that brief chunk of time would stay with him for the rest of the night: through the journeying across that great, dark lake; through the drinking of that potion and the things it tormented him with; through the rising of the cold Inferi from the black waters; through the watching of Kreacher disappear back to Grimmauld Place. For once in his life, Regulus knew he could do what was _right_. 

No one would know of his actions—not his brave older brother, not his fanatical parents, nor even (if all went according to plan) the man Regulus died to thwart. _One_ person would have some idea, however. _One_ person loved him. And she would live on, as would, he hoped, all the people like her who were capable of so much more than the Death Eaters believed. _That_ was all that mattered, not just this once upon a time, but forevermore.


	46. Breathe [Pansy Parkinson]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was challenged to write this pairing.

A summer night lay thick against the windows of your bedroom, silencing nearly all within. It could not press quite so thickly enough to douse your wandlight, nor the occasional rasp of paper as you turned the page of your book. Out there inside the darkness stirred all manner of creatures: bogarts and hinkypunks and who knew what else. You were not out there, however. You were in _here_ , where nothing could touch you outside of the occasional nightmare. No witch or wizard could disturb your solitude...or so you thought. 

"He's not coming!" 

The sudden banging open of your bedroom door and this accompanying pronouncement made you fumble the old Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook in your hands. You threw the intruder a dirty look once you'd caught the old dogeared thing. Almost at once you regretted doing so. The tears in Pansy's hazel eyes made it quite clear she was upset enough already. It being past midnight, you could not imagine _why_ she looked that way, nor why she thought barging in here would be the solution. 

"Who's not coming where?" you asked. 

Pansy sniffed, dabbing at her face with the sleeve of her dressing gown. "I sent Draco an owl a week ago asking him when he wanted to meet in Diagon Alley to get our school things," she explained in a watery voice. "I just got back his owl!" 

"And?" 

She dissolved into tears in earnest. You eyed the black hallway behind her with some trepidation. Though Pansy's parents had been perfectly polite to you for the duration of your stay that holiday, you didn't want to push them too far by making a lot of racket in the middle of the night. Sighing, you slid out of the silk sheets of your bed to pad barefoot across the marble floor over to the door. Pansy seemed too involved with pressing her face into her palms to notice. 

"Here. Come on." After you shut the heavy door as quietly as you could, you had to tug on her gown to get her to look up. "Breathe, Pansy. Come to bed. Tell me all about it." 

Though her breath in sounded quite soggy, she stopped crying long enough to nod. She hiccuped nearly every step of the way back to the massive four poster you called home for the time being. You helped her up on to the mattress before squirming back under the covers yourself. Still Pansy seemed incapable of doing anything more than sniffling. 

"Pans, come on. It can't have been that bad," you said gently. 

"It _is_. Weren't you listening to me? Draco isn't coming!" 

"Then just change the date we're going for our school supplies. We only got the letters yesterday. It's not like we can't change our plans." 

"That's not what I meant!" 

The misery in her voice was enough that you _tried_ not to react to her wailing this right into your ear. Pansy Parkinson was your best friend in all the Wizarding World. She had been since as long as you could remember. Your families were close friends; you were in the same house at Hogwarts; and every other summer you didn't spend with her she spent at _your_ home. Obviously, whatever had happened was serious indeed. 

Eyeing your discarded book with some regret, you finally sighed and placed it carefully on the nightstand next to your wand. "Okay. Start from the beginning," you said. "You finally decided to owl Draco?" 

She nodded weakly. "It's been so long since any of us heard from him. I was starting to get worried. I _know_ he said not to, but..." 

Pansy trailed away. She didn't have to finish her sentence. You had to admit a certain amount of concern for your mutual housemate and friend yourself. Draco's rather bombastic personality had been sorely missed that last bit of the previous school year. He'd vanished during the same night Profession Dumbledore died, and rumors flew as to why, of course. Enough of them centered on how Draco did the deed himself that you suspected Potter of circulating them—but the Hogwarts rumor mill was hardly the issue at present. 

"He didn't say something mean about you bothering him, did he?" you asked. 

She shook her head with a whimper. 

"But he said he couldn't come with us to Diagon Alley. Why?" 

"He _didn't_ say that," Pansy insisted. "Well, he _did_ , but..." 

"But _what_?" 

You couldn't entirely help sounding cross by then. Pansy had not woke you up to have this conversation—no doubt she'd known you would still be awake reading when she decided to bust down your door—but you _did_ expect to be heading to sleep shortly. Not to mention that as much as you cared about Draco yourself, he was a bit of a... _sore spot_ when it came to you and Pansy. 

She shuddered, creeping closer to you for comfort. You allowed this despite your mood. A few minutes of you petting her soft, dark hair passed before she was able to go on: 

"He said he isn't coming _at all_ ," she whispered. 

_This_ caused your ears to perk up. An entire summer holiday without several weeks dedicated to a visit from Draco sounded like a dream come true. Pansy always got so obsessed over him. _Not_ enduring an entire month of her fawning over him and acting as though you didn't exist _was_ a dream you had from time to time. 

"I'm sorry, Pans." You rubbed slow circles in her back and hoped you sounded appropriately contrite. "But we _are_ going to be leaving Hogwarts soon. Maybe his family has something they needed him to do instead, now his father's out of Azkaban." 

"That's just it! He says he's not coming back at all. Ever! He isn't going to come to Hogwarts this year!" 

" _What_? You can't be serious!" 

Her red cheeks made Pansy's sullen glare less easy to take seriously than usual. "Why would I joke about something like this?" 

"I don't know. It's just...why would he drop out _now_? You'd think he'd be looking forward to this year, now Dumbledore's finally gone..." 

"Yeah. _And_ Professor Snape's headmaster. Draco always wanted to see him take that job. Well, until last year." 

Last year. Last year hung tangibly in the air around your bed. You could hardly believe that Pansy brought up last year at all. A quick look at the door showed you it remained firmly shut. Hopefully it wasn't close enough to breakfast yet that you risked the Parkinson's house-elf popping in uninvited. 

"You don't think...You don't think it has anything to do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, do you?" you asked in a low voice. 

Only a select few Slytherins knew the extent of Draco's involvement with You-Know-Who. Well, _guessed_. He'd hinted that he'd been officially inducted into the Death Eaters during the train ride to school the year prior, and, oh, you had wanted to _hit_ him. Pansy already worshiped him. Why did he have to go and insinuate she had even more reason to idealize and adore him? 

"Dunno. Maybe. Probably. Do you think he really killed Dumbledore?" said Pansy, uncertain. 

"Would you care if he did?" 

She looked away from you as she answered, "Of course not. That old codger had to go. It was about time, too. It just..." 

"Doesn't seem like something Draco would do," you agreed. 

"But he also wouldn't skip school! Never! I mean...where does that leave _me_?" 

"Pansy..." you hesitated long and a hard before diving on, "Pansy, does he even care where that leaves you? Does he really? I mean, he hasn't exactly been the best boyfriend to you the past year or so." 

"He's been going through a lot! After Potter accused Mr. Malfoy of being a Death Eater, then getting Mr. Malfoy sent to _jail_ , it's no wonder Draco was struggling so much." 

"I know about all that, but...Look, Pansy, we're friends, aren't we?" 

"Yeah." 

" _Best_ friends?" 

She nodded as she pressed a knuckle into the corner of one moist eye. 

"Then _please_ just hear me out. I don't like the way Draco's been treating you lately." 

You saw the red rush back into her cheeks. Such color typically heralded a real screaming match, so you hastened on: 

"None of us saw much of him last year. Remember? And whenever we spotted him, he was always with other girls none of us had ever seen before." 

"I know..." 

" _And_ when you asked him if he was okay because he looked so tired, he told you to, and I quote, 'shove off.'" 

"I _know_!" 

"All I'm saying is that even if his dad _was_ in jail unfairly, Draco could pay you a _little_ more attention. Just because he took you to the Yule Ball one time doesn't mean that he _owns_ you," you finished. 

None of that had been easy to say, either. _Everyone_ in Slytherin knew better than to bring up Draco's standoffish behavior throughout the course of sixth year around Pansy. Her eyes narrowed considerably, and you braced for the worst. Instead, she just asked: 

"So what are you saying? That I should break up with him?" 

That would be difficult, you thought, especially since you weren't so sure Draco realized Pansy believed the two of them to be dating. He didn't _act_ like they were dating most of the time. Outside of him letting her caress him in the privacy of a train compartment or the common room, he usually behaved as though she meant no more to him than _you_ (or even Crabbe or Goyle) did. Telling her this, however, would only upset her farther. 

"No, I'm not saying that at all," you said. "Just that...well, maybe a year apart will do you _both_ some good. Maybe he'll realize how much he misses you!" 

"What if he _doesn't_? Or what if he—what if You-Know-Who—!" 

Clearly the thought of Draco dying in service to You-Know-Who was too much for Pansy to consider. She shivered violently and said no more. 

"He's not going to die," you said soothingly. " _If_ he's not coming back to Hogwarts, I'm sure it's because He-Who-Most-Not-Be-Named has something important for him to do. And if Draco doesn't figure out what he's missing being away from you, there are other pure-bloods out there that would _love_ to take you out to Madam Puddifoot's." 

"Oh yeah? Like who? If you say Crabbe—" 

"Not Crabbe. Not Goyle either." 

"Then _who_?" Pansy demanded. 

Her question provided you the perfect opportunity to tell Pansy the truth. When you'd said "pure-blood" you'd purposely skirted around the subject of said pure-blood's sex. _Your_ blood was plenty pure, and you loved her. Draco ignored Pansy more often than not. Why _shouldn't_ she get the chance to be with someone who _wanted_ to kiss her and cuddle with her and buy her nice things? Why couldn't _you_ be that someone? 

Your heart sank. You knew exactly why you couldn't be that someone: You were a _girl_. What good would it do for Pansy to marry a pure-blood if she couldn't produce _more_ pure-bloods from that union? Besides, you already knew she didn't feel the same way about you. _Men_ were to her taste, and no one else. To admit your own feelings would only put your friendship at risk, which was not a sacrifice you were willing to make. 

"[Name]?" she pressed. 

Sighing, you pulled your hands away from her. "There's always Nott," you said, "or maybe Zabini." 

"Zabini isn't _too_ bad, I suppose." Pansy sniffed. "He _is_ good looking." 

"Right?" 

"But he's not Draco." 

"No one is." 

Still, the suggestion she would have some recourse for a husband should Draco not return to her side in some form or fashion seemed to put new life in her. She squirmed a bit on top of the duvet, looking caught between eagerness and guilt. Why she needed to feel guilty, you weren't quite so sure. Though the Parkinson's were a pointedly pure-blood family, they didn't seem interested in arranged marriages...then again, Pansy's only target thus far had been perfectly in line with their hopes for a son-in-law. 

"Tell you what," you said. "Why don't we go to Diagon Alley a few times before September? Whatever Draco's up to, he'll need supplies eventually. We're bound to run into him at least once, right?" 

"You really think so?" she asked wistfully. 

"Sure I do. We can go tomorrow. First thing." 

She squealed, throwing her arms around you in a hug. "Thank you, [Name]! You really are a good friend. I feel so much better after talking to you." 

"Don't mention it." 

If Pansy noticed how faint your voice was, she didn't say so. All she did was shoot you a watery smile before turning over and burying herself under your sheets. She'd decided she was staying the night, apparently—not that you'd have protested if she'd asked. 

Quiet as a whisper, you twisted around to _nox_ your wandlight. Then you pulled your blanket over your shoulders and settled in to watch the dark shape that was Pansy. Her breaths became longer and longer until at last she drifted into a comfortable sleep. 

The comfort of dreams did not come to _you_ that night. Unfortunately, you couldn't quiet your mind enough to allow for sleep. A long time had passed since you'd come to grips with knowing you could never tell Pansy that you were in love with her. That was fine. Being in love meant one hoped the object of their affections would be happy no matter what, no matter with who. You only wished that the she had cast those affections on someone who cared for her at least as much as you did. For once, you felt that all those creatures out in the dark that didn't wish to harm did not only live in places like the Forbidden Forest. They had taken up residence inside you as well.


	47. Quiet [Severus Snape]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone here on AO3 actually asked me to write a third part of Regret/Steps. I'm still not quite sure why as that premise was stretched pretty far to begin with, but here is my long and rambling continuation.

Hogwarts wasn't quite so grand an establishment when one returned to it as an adult. A lot of time for reflection revealed as much. Being pure-blood, the school never seemed as mystical and intimidating to you as it had to your half-blood and muggle-born peers. In fact, it had seemed a little small and dingy upon your arrival. How could it be otherwise after hearing so many stories about your forefathers' experiences there? It seemed that memory had caused the building to grow in size and stature. You were almost surprised (and certainly disappointed) by how degraded it appeared once you returned. 

True, part of that could be chalked up to it being the summer holiday. No students loitered about to fill the corridors with laughter and spellwork and smells. None would for some weeks yet. But that could explain only the aching atmosphere. Hogwarts wasn't dirty. Far from it. Clearly the house-elves remained working even when the rest of the school staff did not. It was just quiet. _Too_ quiet. Not a single half-real resident would speak to you—not an elf, nor a ghost, nor a painting. They all fell silent, each and every one of them, when they heard your approach. 

In the end, what bothered you was not the vacancy. You could get used to silence. Undoubtedly you would long for it once September arrived. No, what _really_ bothered you was the handful of wizarding company you were forced to keep. 

"Oi, what're _you_ doing here?" a gruff male voice demanded the minute you stepped into the kitchen. 

Times like these served to remind you that your master's wisdom did not trickle down to his followers...if indeed he had wisdom to pass on, which you doubted now. Such times also served to remind you just how far you had fallen in rank. Not so long ago, Alecto and Amycus Carrow would not have _dared_ to question your presence anywhere you pleased to put it. Now they did so endlessly. 

The two of them sat at a little round table laden with food. A puddle of house-elves stood around them, their huge eyes flashing nervously in every direction, but mostly toward the corner where you knew their problem fellow lay. If she was smarter than usual, she would keep out of the way until the Carrows grew bored enough to try other entertainment venues—such as spitting off the top of the Astronomy Tower. Of course, staying out of the way would also have made her smarter than _you_. 

"I should think anyone with any brains at all would know why a person might enter a kitchen at this time of day, Amycus," you answered coldly. 

He swallowed a too-large hunk of roasted chicken. "Who are you calling brainless, eh?" 

"He's got more brains 'an _you_ ," Alecto said. "'Least he's got something to _do_ around here." 

"That's right. Alecto 'ere is deputy headmistress. What's _your_ assignment?" 

"Oh, that's an easy one. She's the headmaster's slag, she is." 

Your lips curled. These two—these two arrogant, foul-mouthed fools—were so far beneath you that they might as well have been a pair of flubberworms. They were about as attractive as flubberworms, too. Yet they as well as everyone else in the Death Eaters' employ saw fit to insult you. 

Alecto cackled at the look on your face. "What's wrong, [Name]? Did I hit a nerve? Offended, are you, that the rest of know just why _you're_ here?" 

"If you already know," you said, "then why did your brother ask?" 

"You callin' me brainless again?" Amycus demanded. 

"That's two mistakes. One more an' I'll have you sacked. Oh wait. Can't sack someone who doesn't have a purpose, can you?" 

"Don't waste your breath, Alecto. _She's_ just upset we won't lick 'er boots. Used to think she was a princess, didn't she? Now she thinks that just because her husband keeps her around for—" 

"I assure you that you don't want to finish that sentence. Not if you expect to keep all your body parts attached to the proper places," you broke in. 

The twins went milky-gray with fury when they spotted your lifted wand. Several of the more intelligent elves dived for cover. 

"Miss—" piped up one of the less intelligent ones. 

"Don't—" tried another. 

Amycus and Alecto leaped from their seats brandishing their own wands, knocking several elves to the floor in the process. 

"You think you can take _us_ in a fight? Eh?" Alecto shouted. 

"You think your husband's going to save you? You think he cares if we _crucio_ you 'til morning? Not if we make sure not to leave a mark on your pretty skin!" Amycus said. 

You threw an exaggerated look over one shoulder without ever lowering your wand. "Last I checked, he wasn't here. Do your worst. I could outduel the both of you with my hands tied behind my back. I might have married down, but at least I'm not so inbred I can't tell a bludger from a snitch." 

That did the trick. Alecto and Amycus began to shriek insults at the top of their lungs. Curses flew through the air—none of them fatal to you, but the house-elves all wisely made a run for safer passages through the castle. Not that it mattered. The Carrow's aim was abysmal. Still, you couldn't blame the house-elves for fleeing in terror. You watched the chaos for a good half-minute before pocketing your wand and turning to leave. It wasn't worth your time and energy to engage the twins in any real fight. Better to save any of that for when your husband made his return. All you'd wanted was to rile them up, and you could consider _that_ mission accomplished. 

Unfortunately, you had not accomplished what you'd risked leaving your quarters and encountering those imbeciles _for_. The painting swung shut behind you, sealing out their continual racket and leaving you for the third night in a row without supper. Damn, but you were hungry. Snape had forbidden the three of you from using the Great Hall. _He_ said it was because there was no point in wasting resources on the likes of you. Ha. You knew the truth. All he wanted was for you lower yourself enough to eat with your cohorts, or at least to ask a house-elf to bring you a platter of sandwiches to eat alone. 

As if. You were _not_ going to suffer any further indignities at Snape's greasy hands. If you had to starve to death, so be it. Doing so would put you out of his reach even if it accomplished nothing else. Perhaps it would do double duty and inconvenience him. It was not _your_ fault you were at Hogwarts. If you had had your druthers, you would still have been at home, if a hovel like Spinner's End could truly be called your "home." Since nothing else fit the bill any longer, the hovel would have to do. 

The Carrows were right about one thing, though (which was an all-time record for them): Snape had only one reason to keep you around, and that reason was not enough to force you to endure your present conditions. At least at Spinner's End you could eat whenever you pleased. The pictures did not whisper behind your backs there either, as they did at the school that night as you marched mindlessly through the dark corridors. 

You blinked in an attempt to dispel this well-worn pathway of thoughts. In doing so, you found your reflective wanderings had placed you exactly where you needed to be. The gargoyle statue leading to the Headmaster's office sat in front of you. Technically, you weren't supposed to go inside unsupervised. Technically, that didn't matter to you. After the fit you'd kicked up over being forced to move, your _dear_ husband should already have known your feelings about the situation, but why not illuminate him a fourth time? 

Only a moment of hesitation preceded your speaking the password—quietly, in case Peeves lurked nearby, as no doubt he would be thrilled to pass the information along to your new bosom buddies in the kitchen. Your hesitation troubled you. Why _shouldn't_ you enter? Snape was so busy with the work for the Dark Lord lately that you doubted he was anywhere near Hogwarts at all. And if he was, well, so what? His comfort and privacy were not yours to worry over. 

The stairs spun upward beneath your feet. As you climbed, you strained your ears to hear any sound of a conversation you ought not have been privy to. Snape did not always remember to cast _muffliato_ when ensconced inside the office. You'd managed to catch a few snippets of information here and there, but nothing so far that might reinstate your position among the Death Eaters. That night, no voices reached you through the thick door. Assuming this to mean that your husband was either out or alone, you walked right into the room without knocking. 

"Ah, Miss [L Name]. It's been so long that I hardly recognize you. Oh, but forgive me. It is Mrs. Snape now, is it not?" 

You froze to the spot at a familiar voice coming from somewhere in the room. The trouble was that you could not see who spoke. No one sat behind the large, old desk. No one appeared to be there with you at all. _Who_ the voice belonged to was probably of more pressing concern, though; certainly it was not your husband saying these things, nor the Carrows, but so many of the Hogwarts staff either returned home for the holidays or had too much to do with the Order at present that you knew no one else ought to have been on the grounds. 

"I am over here, Mrs. Snape," the same voice said. 

That time, you caught a flash of movement from the corner of your left eye. Over there sat the wall adorned by the portraits of every headmaster Hogwarts had ever had, the good, the bad, and the ugly. You blushed slightly at having forgotten that they were there, too. Would they tattle on you to Snape when he returned? Doubtless. Though all but one were either absent or sleeping, you knew them well enough to know that either or both could be an act—and it was likely the one addressing you wouldn't bother keeping quiet himself. 

"Dumbledore?" you asked, unable to entirely hide the surprise in your voice as his blue eyes twinkled at you from across the office. 

He smiled at your approach. "I was wondering if you might ever sneak up here. You've come close a handful of times, I realize, but never bothered to open the door." 

It shouldn't have come as such a shock to find your own headmaster here posthumously. Not only once or twice had Dumbledore called you here during your time as a student. Your activities earned you several lectures in this very room. You'd also had the chance (when Dumbledore delayed in arriving for your meetings) to speak to Phineus Nigelus, your ancestor...but alas, _he_ was not in his frame that night. This was a pity, as you'd have much rather have had a conversation with _him_ than your own instructor. 

You started as you realized you'd been scanning the paintings instead of answering Dumbledore. Again, you wondered why that bothered you. It was not like he had any real feelings to offend. Perhaps he never had, for his picture remained patiently waiting until your attention returned to him. 

"Snape—" you caught yourself with a sharp breath, then went on, " _Severus_ has forbidden me to be here." 

"And you listened? I find that difficult to believe." 

"He _is_ in charge around here now." 

"Ah, yes. Do not worry. I did not expect you to mourn my passing. And I suppose that Severus is in charge of _you_ now as well?" 

"That's not what I—" 

As usual, the mere lifting of Dumbledore's eyebrows had you falling furiously silent. Were the Carrows still down in the kitchen, you wondered. Maybe they weren't such bad company after all. Better than the alternatives. 

"Do tell me, then, what you meant," Dumbledore prompted you. 

"What do you care?" you muttered, covering your elbows with your palms. 

"I have no reason to. Humor me, however. A painting only receives so much news, especially in times such as these." 

"I am _not_ here to discuss my love life." 

"Very well—although I must point I never said anything about your love life. Let us find something else to talk about," he went on before you could interrupt. "How _are_ you?" 

You could not _believe_ this was what your life had turned into. Had you not got good scores while at Hogwarts? Sure, you had not been a Head Girl or a prefect or even a quidditch captain. One could even say you hadn't done a very good job at keeping your head down. You'd been smart, though, and clever, and willing to prove yourself. Now you were stuck in school as a grown adult, talking with the painting of a man you despised about your _feelings_. 

"Not well, I take it," Dumbledore said into the silence. 

Spinning around could not quite remove the sensation of his eyes on your back. "Why on earth would I be well? You have no idea—you can have no idea—holed up here in your castle—you have no idea what it's been like the past few years!" 

Even as you shouted these things, you knew they weren't strictly true. If Dumbledore did nothing but hide away in Hogwarts, your master would not hate him so. If Dumbledore did nothing but keep out of the way, there would have been no reason for the Malfoy boy to be inducted into the Death Eaters solely for the assignment of killing him. But you did not want to give Dumbledore any quarter, especially not when he said in a soft voice: 

"I do not have any idea what it has been like for you. Severus has told me some things, of course. I would not say that I was 'holed up' anywhere, or that I have no idea what's going on at all. Even now, I am given the odd snippet of news—the same snippets of news you sneak up here to devour. But I digress. Have you really fallen so far that you think being cared for and living somewhere you don't know is worse than what the people you have attacked for so long go through?" 

"Cared for?" you repeated, because what else could you say? "Cared for? I don't know what lies my husband has been feeding you, but I hardly call what he has done for me 'caring' for me!" 

Dumbledore said nothing. 

"I never asked for him to care for me! I never asked for a husband. All I asked was to be given the chance to prove myself. And for what? _One_ bungle? _One_ mistake? Lucius Malfoy has made many more spectacular mistakes than I have and yet I don't see the Dark Lord casting _him_ aside by marrying him off to the most pathetic among us!" 

"Really? You find Severus more pathetic than the Carrows?" 

"Quit _doing_ that! You _always_ do that!" 

"Do what?" 

"Purposely misunderstand me!" 

"Perhaps you simply aren't as clear as you could be." 

You could feel the heat pooling in your cheeks. It never had taken Dumbledore much to get you riled up like this. So many months of being cold and alone made your anger feel altogether strange. The Carrows were sounding like better and better company. 

"You always were so enamored with your sisters," Dumbledore said. "You always wanted to be just like them. After the incident, I was not surprised in the direction you chose to take your life." 

_That_ had your shoulders up around your ears. " _Don't_ talk to me about that." 

"Even after all this time you won't think about it?" 

"I didn't want to talk about it then, and I don't want to talk about it now!" 

"No. I suppose not. I _do_ wish that you'd listened to me, [Name]." A sorrow crept into his voice that had goosebumps erupting over your skin. "So much sorrow could be avoided. So much loneliness. You truly think that Severus does not care for you?" 

"I _know_ he doesn't." 

"You're wrong." 

"What a surprise that you think that way!" 

"He _does_ care. He has told me." 

This was absolute insanity. Only the days of being stuck with no one to speak to but house-elves and paintings (both of whom avoided you as much as they could) could explain why you stuck around—or at least did so without trying to find out if a slashing hex or two could silence this dead man forever. All the same, the gentle way Dumbledore spoke made you think twice about storming out. Your voice softened as you asked: 

"Why would he tell you that?" 

"We are closer than you think, your husband and I. Why do you think he brought you here, except to keep you from—" 

" _That_ is quite enough," came a new voice from behind you. 

With a gasp, you spun on your heel to face the fireplace in the back of the office. Snape had returned as silently as ever; the green in the fire told you had had floo'd there, but not how much of your conversation with Dumbledore he had been allowed overhear. You flushed. Hypocritical though it might have been, you did not like the idea of him having heard _any_ of that. He did not look much happier than you. His dark, beady eyes narrowed as they looked past you right at the painting. 

"Severus, good evening," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "I take it the mission went well." 

"As well as could be expected," he answered cryptically. 

"Were they any causalities?" 

"We will speak about it later. What were _you_ two talking about?" 

"You. Are you embarrassed?" 

Instead of replying, Snape snapped his attention to you. His lips curled at once. "I thought I told you you never to set foot in here when I am not here to supervise you." 

"I—" you began hotly. 

"Yet you gave her the password. Curious," Dumbledore put in in a mild tone. 

"I did not _ask_ for your opinion," Snape snapped. 

He did not look himself, you realized. You did not spend a lot of time with your husband as a general rule. Only at Death Eater meetings were you forced to be close enough to him to look at him those days, and you were summoned to meetings so rarely that even _that_ hardly happened. Snape looked worn down, though, like he had not been sleeping. The idea of asking him what was so wrong occurred to you...only for you to realize he was sweeping up upon you before you could do so. 

"Out." He grasped your wrist and marched you toward the door. "When I have need of you, I will call you. Do you understand?" 

For once, you wrenched out of his grip and to turn on him. The poison on your tongue vanished the moment you got a good look at him now that he had drawn close. You forgot momentarily how much you loathed it when he touched you. Yes, you might have been so starved for affection after long months of being shut in his home while he was teaching that you agreed to the quick encounters the Carrows had so basely referred to, but that did not mean that you permitted his clammy palms to cling to you outside of those encounters. All you could think of then was how exhausted Snape looked. Hollow, even. He had looked that way the night Dumbledore died; now he looked almost as though he'd grown intimate with a dementor. 

Why _had_ Snape given you the password to this office? You realized then that Dumbledore was right about that being curious. If your husband wanted nothing to do with you, there would have been no way for you to access him without the means he himself gave you. Did it have something to do with that hollowness? Or was it simply another of the games he liked to play to remind you just how far his position above you remained? 

You found you could not ask that question either. Some part of you was afraid of the answer. Instead, you opened your mouth to inform him, "I only bothered coming up here to try finding some food, I'll have you know." 

"Why would I keep food in the headmaster's office when there is a perfectly good kitchen so many floors down?" Snape asked, sneering. 

"For the same reason I hoped to find some. One should not have to look at either Amycus _or_ Alecto while digesting. Being forced to look at both of them is a form of torture to which not even the _cruciatus_ can compare." 

The corners of his mouth twitched, or so you thought. "Yes, that is something I have experienced myself on several occasions." 

"Then you know how desperate I am after three days with only them to eat with." 

"Yes, desperate enough to risk looking at _me_." 

All you did in answer was to raise your eyebrows. That time you were _sure_ you saw the makings of a smile on his ugly face. Would wonders never cease? Dead men talked and Severus Snape found you amusing. But the almost-smile was gone in a flash, replaced by his usual sour expression. 

"I will have something sent to your quarters. In the future, I expect you to follow my orders and stay away unless I request your presence. Whether or not the Carrows are your only options to dine with is not my problem." 

"Don't hold your breath," you said lightly. 

No punishment came: no pain, no flash of light, no hoisting into the air. Snape only gestured for you to leave of your own volition. You could hardly believe your luck. Still expecting _some_ comeuppance for your flippancy, you turned toward the door with only a faint chuckle from Dumbledore bidding you farewell. A few scant scraps of conversation floated after you as you scurried down the stairs: 

"I am glad you brought here with you, Severus." 

"She does do a fair bit to keep me on my toes—and does a marvelous job keeping the Carrows out of my way. It's a good thing they loath her more than they do me." 

"If that's the excuse you'd like to give yourself for keeping her around, I will not disabuse you of it. [Name] does not seem to think you capable of anything further either." 

"I've never claimed the woman was stupid." 

Then you slipped out into the dark corridor. The gargoyle statue ground back into place with no magical input from you, which left you once more in absolute silence. You walked back to your own bedroom just as quietly, in part to avoid attracting the attention of the castle's other residents. Running into Peeves at this hour would be just as irritating as another row with the Carrows. In truth, however, you were too busy thinking to make much noise. 

What did Snape mean about you keeping him on your toes? Why did Dumbledore think Snape was capable of doing more than keeping you prisoner for his own amusement? For what purpose could anyone delude themselves into thinking Snape was trying to _protect_ you? There was nothing to protect you _from_! 

By the time you climbed into your waiting bed, you'd all but convinced yourself the whole lot meant nothing at all. Snape had dragged you to Hogwarts for one reason and one reason only: because he could. That you spent your days being either bored out of your mind or insulted by people beneath your station would only give him further pleasure. And Dumbledore? Dumbledore had always only told you what he thought would mold you to _his_ idea of you. The only thing you could not square away was _why_ he wanted to defend the man that had killed him. 

Whatever was going on, those two were in it together. The voices you'd heard on your handful of visits to the office stairwell had always belonged to the two of them. You recognized that now. Your husband and your master's most hated enemy were plotting _something_. Now you were determined to find out what. So Snape was tired. So what? He'd brought it on himself, and his bringing you along he would live to regret. Playing your cards right now just might restore you to your place at your master's side.


	48. Shield [Sirius Black]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been on a bit of a Marauder kick lately. Sorry! These idiots are just so much fun to write for. Hard to juggle, too! I _want_ to add more Peter in, but I always struggle to keep five different voices going at once...

A summer holiday never passed without a visit to James Potter's house at some point. This was true from your first year on. You and your friends trooped in and out of the Potter home as often as you could, and his parents often said (only half-jokingly) that they feared the day the lot of you became of age and passed your apparition tests. All the same, the older you got, the more you had a life to lead outside of the one you shared with your four closest friends. Holidays still required you to finish increasing amounts of homework, as well as spend time with the family you hardly ever saw. Judging by the look on James' face when he greeted you at his bedroom window, such an idea had never occurred to him. 

"Where've you been?" he asked as he stepped back to let you inside. "I owled you _ages_ ago." 

You landed on his floor with the softest _thump_ possible, then straightened to glare at him. "It was the middle of the night, Prongs. So sorry I didn't want to figure out how to get all the way over here at three in the morning." 

"If that's the kind of treatment you give an emergency _now_ , I hate to see what you'll be like as a healer." 

"Haha. Need I remind you that the _last_ time you owled me with an 'emergency,' it turned out that you and Sirius just wanted me to come and settle a bet?" 

James' lips quirked at the ends. You and he had always had an acerbic way with each other; he knew not to take your waspishness personally. "Have it your way. I won ten galleons that day, I'll have you know. But this _is_ a _real_ emergency. Who knows what you've wrought by waiting until _lunchtime_ to bother showing your face?" 

"If it was really an emergency, why didn't you owl Remus instead?" 

"Ah-hem." 

You froze in the act of pulling off your boots. Looking up, you saw Remus sitting cross-legged on top of James' unmade bed. He was actually a little difficult to see among James' usual filth and the constant movement of the quidditch posters pinned on the wall directly behind him. Remus' expression made it clear he'd heard your entire argument even _with_ the marked bags beneath his eyes betraying just how badly he was in need of a nap. 

" _Moony_ has been here since four this morning," James informed you loftily. 

"Bully for Moony," you said. "Where're the rest of us, then, if we're dealing with some big 'emergency'?" 

"Lay off the air quotes, would you?" James asked. 

"No. Budge up, Remus. That's the only place to sit that isn't covered in James' smelly chaser robes." 

Remus obliged before saying in his usual calm voice, "Peter _was_ here. He had to leave to run an errand for his mother, but he assured us that he'll be back as soon as he can." 

"That'll be hours, knowing Peter's mum." 

A noncommittal hum was Remus' only answer. 

"I can't _believe_ you're getting on to me after Peter bailed," you snapped at James. 

"At least _he_ showed up," he said. 

"It's not so easy for those of us with muggle parents to magic ourselves halfway across the country, you know. You're lucky I was able to have a portkey arranged at all on such short notice." 

While James rolled his eyes—typical pure-blood; he really never considered how his moods effected _you_ —Remus brushed your shoulder with his hand. "We're both very glad you were able to make it. I know James is being very _James_ right now, but he isn't lying. We do have a situation on our hands." 

You snorted. "And Sirius? Where's he? You'd think the love of your life would move heaven and earth to be here for your 'situation,' Prongs." 

"You're only jealous that your boyfriend feels more deeply for _me_ than he does for _you_ ," James said in a saintly tone of voice. 

Of course, the only rational response to that was a rude hand gesture. He returned in kind. Remus chuckled at your antics, but before you and James could really start going at it, Remus pushed your arm back to your side. 

"That's just it, [Name]," he said. The emergency _is_ Sirius." 

That was just about the only thing either of them could have said to make your blood run cold. You forgot at once your spat with James and turned to look at Remus with horror plain your face. "What's wrong with Sirius?" 

"Now, [Name]—" 

"His parents didn't _do_ something to him, did they?" 

"We're not exactly—" 

"I'll _kill_ Walburga if she even _thought_ about hurting him. How dare they treat him like that!" 

"It's not—" 

"And what are the two of you doing in here when Sirius is hurt? You really thought you needed to wait around for me?" 

"Would you shut up and let Moony finish?" James interrupted, exasperated. 

You paused, which was difficult considering how fast your heart was beating. Neither of them would just be sitting there in James' disgusting pit of a bedroom if Sirius were an immediate danger. That was something you knew very well. One deep, calming breath preceded you turning back to Remus, who was waiting very patiently for you to give him permission to go on. 

"Sorry, Moony.” 

"That's quite all right," he said primly. 

A pause ensued during which you knew from practice Remus was testing you to make sure you really weren't going to interrupt him this time around. Saying there was an emergency regarding Sirius was just about the only way he could ensure such a thing—not that you sat quietly. You twitched as you stared at him, holding your breath, half-wanting to whip out your wand and apparate away, underage magic though it would have been. After what felt like an agonizingly long time, he finally went on: 

"As I tried telling you before, Sirius isn't hurt. At least, he isn't physically hurt." 

"That we can tell," James put in. 

Remus shot him an aggrieved look. Not without reason either, because hearing this caused you to leap to your feet. 

"That you can _tell_?" you practically shrieked. 

"You did that on purpose," Remus said tiredly, as James looped his arms through yours from behind to keep you from sprinting away. 

"Let me go, Prongs! I'm going to see Sirius! I _have_ to see Sirius!" 

No amount of struggling could get you released. Good grief, what were you on the quidditch team _for_ if it didn't give you muscles to match James'? Remus was no help either. He just shook his head and went on as though two of his best friends weren't having a very typical wrestling match just a few feet away from him: 

"He's upset, that's all. And none of us can figure out _why_." 

"Have you tried _asking_ him?" you asked. 

"What ever happened to a woman's wisdom?" said James. " _Our_ woman only states the obvious. I think it's defective." 

"Obviously I'd have to be since I put up with you lot day in and day out." 

Finally, you managed to stamp right on James' toes. He was wearing shoes so your socked feet couldn't do much damage, but he put on an admirable show of hopping about and swearing so that you could get out of his grasp. You let out a sharp sigh, swiped some hair behind your ear, and looked back at where Remus remained sitting just as he had been—and how was a wonder, considering you didn't think James had bothered trying a cleaning charm on those sheets all holiday. 

"Okay, so you've asked him what's wrong and he won't say. Sounds very Sirius of him. Why do you think something's wrong anyway?" 

James stopped his antics at once to answer: "Because he showed up here about midnight last night and he's been camped out in the backyard ever since." 

"Sirius showed up last night?" 

"Yes." 

"Here?" 

"Aren't healers supposed to be smart, Moony?" 

"Did he _apparate_ here?" you demanded before Remus could reply. 

The huff James let out made it clear he found your stream of questions annoying. Since annoying him was half of why you were asking, you didn't apologize. "Probably. It's not like I was right there, you know. It was raining and I was in here—" 

"Doing that essay for McGonagall so you don't have to copy my work once school starts, I'm sure," Remus said. 

"Right you are. At any rate, there was this loud _crack_ right outside. Nearly gave Mum a heart attack. Dad and I went out to investigate, and there was Sirius, setting up some old sheets on a rope to make a tent. Wouldn't say what in Merlin's name he was doing there. Wouldn't let us convince us to come in out of the weather either. You know, I think he might have _jinxed_ me if I'd pressed him any more. But we never got a letter about underage magic." 

As James went on, your mind whirled faster and faster. Sirius was here. Sirius was here and something had obviously _happened_. Sirius was here and something had happened and you'd had to rely on _James_ to let you know instead of Sirius telling him yourself. The two boys stared at you. Had there been enough room with all the contents of James' trunk strewn about the place, you would have started pacing. Your only option instead was to stare right back. 

"Is he still here?" you asked. 

"Yes," James said. 

"But he still won't tell you what's the matter?" 

He shook his head. "Mum took some kippers out to him for breakfast. I don't think Padfoot even noticed she left the plate out for him." 

Your heart thundered inside your chest. This was bad. Sirius could be moody. You knew that intimately. This? This just wasn't like him at all. 

"We were hoping _you_ might be able to coax something out of him," Remus said. 

" _Me_? _You_ two are his best friends!" 

The two of them exchanged bemused expressions. "Yes, and you’re his girlfriend." 

"Much as it pains me to say it," James added. 

"Oh, shove off, James. Now isn't the time for you whine about how Sirius and I snogging is ruining our group dynamic." 

Now you really _were_ angry, and he could tell. Bringing up how disappointed he'd been when two of his friends started dating was a surefire way to piss you off any day of the week—during a crisis, even more so. His hazel eyes flashed away from your livid face. "Not at all what I was getting at—took it completely out of context..." he muttered. 

You ignored him to turn to the only rational person in the room. "Where is he now?" 

"Still in the backyard, as far as we know," Remus answered. 

No "goodbye" or "thanks for the notice" left your mouth. You simply sprinted from the room, leaving Remus behind to soothe James' wounded feelings. Later you would (probably) apologize to the latter—he hadn't given you a hard time about seeing Sirius since your date ruined a Hogsmeade weekend near Valentine's Day—but for now, he'd have to wait. As you neared the stairs, you took a flying leap that landed you neatly on the first floor, then you sprinted into the sunlit kitchen nearby. 

"Hello, Mrs. Potter, Mr. Potter," you called, skittering past the two of them sitting at the table. 

"Hello, [Name]," they chorused. Neither of them looked up from their current occupations—hers knitting, his reading that morning's _Prophet_ —it was that often that you and your friends materialized in their home without using the front door. They didn't ask you when you'd arrived or what you were doing running like a maniac through their house either. 

Slowing to ask them how they were did not occur to you. Just as soon as you'd seen them, you were out the backdoor and striding quickly through the grassy yard. You didn't have to do much searching to spot what passed for Sirius' camp. As pathetic as it was, it stuck out like a sore thumb: one thick rope (conjured the night before, you assumed) stretched between two large trees, and on that rope hung a sheet that looked like one he had brought along from Grimmauld Place. It was just the right shade of Slytherin green to belong to the Blacks...but Walburga had never gone in for any _rational_ sort of fabrics, even for bedsheets, so one night out in the weather had turned the silk splotchy. 

"Sirius?" you called. 

No one answered. Only the sound of birds and rustling leaves filled the air. You moved forward, wondering if he had already vacated the premises. On a wide stump to your left sat the plate of kippers James' mum had tried to deliver. Now it was covered in ants. Sirius wouldn't just ignore her cooking like that. And if he hadn't got a warning for using underage magic to apparate here the night before, what would stop him from apparating somewhere else _now_? 

At last, you reached the sheet. The sad little thing was so sodden and muddy that you wondered that it didn't slide right off the rope if Sirius hadn't bothered setting up with magic. It already _smelled_ like it had been outside for several hours, too. Surely your boyfriend wasn't in _there_ —but still you had to check before you returned to James' bedroom to organize a search party. 

"Sirius?" you said again as you thrust your head into the opening. 

He _was_ there, much to your surprise. His dark, wet hair plastered to the sides of his face along with the apparent creeping in of a beard would have made Sirius look quite amusing, except for the fact that his cheeks and eyes were also an unusual shade of red for him. You squeezed around the trunk sitting in the opening and crawled over to sit down next to him before he could speak. 

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked. 

"I think that's a better question for _me_ to ask _you_. What are you doing in a...whatever this is supposed to be in the Potters' backyard?" 

Sirius snorted delicately. "I suppose James sent you an owl after he found me here. He's acting like a mother hen when there's _nothing_ to be worried about." 

"Well, it _is_ his backyard you've set up shop in. He was bound to notice you here eventually. And course he's worried. You're his best friend." 

On a good day, James might not have worried so much about Sirius popping in for an impromptu camp out. That much was true. You thought it best not to inform your boyfriend that even someone like James could tell that he'd been crying, though. Sirius spent enough time worrying over his looks when he was emotionally stable. 

"That doesn't mean that he had to drag my _girlfriend_ into it. Is it too much to ask for a _little_ privacy? I thought it was bad enough when they sent Peter out here," Sirius said. 

"You'll be happy to know that James did _not_ call me over because I'm your girlfriend, then. Apparently the only reason he owled me at all is because he thought this needed a _woman's_ touch." 

Sirius was halfway through rubbing his face when he heard this. The words caused him to pause for a good half minute. During this half-minute, he stared to emit a very strange choking noise that caused you some alarm. Then he lifted his head and you realized that the strange noise was him _laughing_. 

"I'll give Prongs one thing," he said breathlessly. "He's made me laugh. A woman's touch! Coming from _you_!" 

If he hadn't been leaking tears from his eyes again, you would have shoved him over. The boys were _always_ doing that: making out like the thought you might be feminine at all was a joke. While that might have been true before your fourth year, you didn't believe it any longer. Somehow you managed to stay your hand anyway. 

"Haha. Yes. I'm glad the thought _amused_ you so. Now that you're speaking a little more openly, may I ask why I had to hear about your change of address from _James_ instead of _you_?" 

The question sobered Sirius up at once. "Who said I've changed addresses?" 

"Considering the fact that your trunk is taking up more than half of the space in here and if you were going back you'd probably not have brought your school things with you..." 

"Perhaps I thought I might tackle some homework with James." 

"Uh-huh. Gonna get a lot of that done when you aren't talking to him or the only one of us who _does_ their summer homework." Sirius' mouth puckered. You nudged his shoulder with yours to show you didn't mean to offend. "I can't leave until you give me _something_ to tell Prongs and Moony, you know." 

"Sorry to disappoint you all, but there's nothing to tell," he said. 

"If I promise to not tell them the truth, will you at least tell _me_ what's going on?" 

"No." 

For a long time, the two of you just watched each other, eyes narrowed. Nothing happened to break your stare off. The walls of Sirius' makeshift tent were so wet that they couldn't even catch a breeze. That coupled with the fact that his trunk really _was_ taking up most of the room made this not at all an environment you could imagine your haughty boyfriend who was accustomed to comfort manage to stay in for very long...not that you'd ever tell him such a thing to his face. 

"Have it your way," you sighed. As you did, you awkwardly clambered to your feet and slipped around Sirius' trunk. Then you realized that he wasn't following you. "Aren't you coming?" you asked him over your shoulder. 

"No, thank you," he said shortly. 

Though you'd been trying hard to be gentle, you couldn't help frowning then. You and Sirius typically traded off whose turn it was to be unreasonably moody. Your mind ticked backward through the last handful of school months. James had pissed you off over that Valentine's Day date—but no, Sirius had nearly had a melt down over his Charms final when it turned he and James had skived off so much even an "O" might not salvage his grade. So it was _not_ his turn to be grumpy. It was _yours_. 

Then again, you thought, it wasn't like him to appear at _any_ one's home in the middle of the night, let alone refuse to tell them why he was behaving so strangely. Sirius _thrived_ in the midst of drama. If it was him causing it, so much the better. Was this mood now really so unreasonable, then? 

"Come on, Padfoot. Just join us for lunch. I'll bet you're hungry since you missed breakfast, and maybe if everyone else sees how _obviously_ fine you are, they'll leave you alone," you wheedled. 

"I already said _no_." 

You threw your hands into the air. "Fine. But you're not going to get a moment's peace _here_ until you do. Maybe if that's what you're looking for, you should just go _home_. Preferably _before_ your mum shows up here looking for you again and does something nasty to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. 

"I _can't_." 

His voice cracked. As if that was not horrifying enough on its own, his dark eyes filled with tears. He ducked his head to hide this, but not quickly enough to prevent you from seeing it. Your heart sank. Even with the trunk, even with his strange behavior, you hadn't _really_ thought Sirius had meant to leave home forever. The Blacks _always_ fought. _Always_. It wasn't healthy, but that was how it _was_. 

Your hand clutching the sheet lowered slowly as you wondered what to do. Yes, Sirius was moody, but he didn't _cry_. Not in front of _you_ , at any rate. If he ever did so in front of the others, they were good enough friends not to say. Probably it would be better for your relationship if you just walked off pretending you hadn't noticed his tears to begin with. 

You just couldn't do it. Sirius didn't cry in front of you; that meant that whatever was going on was _really_ serious time, a real emergency, just as James had claimed. Slowly, you crept back over to his side. 

"Sirius, what are you talking about?" you asked. 

"I _can't_ go home," he said without lifting his head. "Not ever again. I _won't_." 

"Did...something happen?" 

"Of course something happened! I bloody ran away, didn't I?" 

At least this got him looking at you again. You forced yourself not to flinch away from his furious expression. "You _what_? Sirius, _why_?" 

"Why? Why do you have to ask? I couldn't _stand_ it anymore! All their pure-blood mania! You-Know-Who this. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that. They all think this _murderer_ is what's right for the country, and now that Regulus has started worshiping the prick, _he_ won't shut up about it either!" 

"But they've _always_ been like that." 

"And I've decided that I'm sick of it. Regulus started dating that girl in his house this year, too. Mum's gone all sappy about it. If I had to hear her say one more thing about _my_ —" he sucked in a quick breath, then smoothly went on, "Well, there's a lot of things I didn't want to hear any more about from _her_ or any of the rest. I'm done with the lot of them." 

It didn't take a skilled legilimens to work out what Sirius had come so close to saying aloud. How his parents felt about you was no secret. To you, their acceptance never mattered. The Slytherins at school made no secret of how low they saw you either. You had to put up with a fair amount of scorn as a muggle-born. Why bother worrying over something you'd never receive, such as the Blacks' blessing? Sirius didn't care about your blood status. That was all that mattered. You'd always sort of thought your boyfriend felt the same way about it up until just then. 

"I hope you didn't leave just on _my_ account," you said softly. 

He looked away. "It wasn't _just_ you. Mum gets nastier and nastier every damn time I visit. Regulus is just so perfect. I don't think she understands how she gave birth to some _thing_ like me. And Dad's not much better." 

"No, I can't imagine. It's just... _how_ did you decide to come _here_?" 

"I didn't. I just...left. One more day at Grimmauld Place and I'd have gone mad. The Potters' was the first place I thought of when I apparated. You can tell James and his parents I'll only be here until I can find my own place to stay. I won't take advantage." 

"I don't think that that's why any of them are worried," you pointed out. 

Sirius shrugged. 

Since he still seemed reluctant to look at you, you took his shoulder in your hand. He finally turned his head. "I won't tell the rest of them what's going on if you don't want me to." 

"Thanks. I'll be out of everyone's hair as soon as I can be. I promise." 

"You're not in anyone's hair. Certainly you're not in mine." You pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Can I ask you one more thing, though?" 

"I suppose." 

"You and your family have never been very close. I can understand why you ran away, but...why are you so upset about it?" 

Tears rushed once again to Sirius' eyes, but he didn't shed them. Instead, he just said in a hoarse voice. "They were still my _family_ , [Name]. I guess all this time I've just been hoping _someday_ they'd wake up and realize how awful they were being. Maybe I thought they'd love me after they did." 

"Oh, Sirius." 

"I can be a real idiot sometimes, can't it?" 

You kissed him again, this time briefly on the mouth. "Yes, but not about this. They'll be sorry you left. But you know you still have a real family, right? Me and James and Remus and Peter. _We're_ your family, and none of us is ever going to leave or betray you." 

Finally, _finally_ Sirius cracked a smile with no trace of hysteria to it. "I hope you don't apply to that," he said. 

"Me? What not?" you asked, blinking. 

"Because you can't snog your sister." 

He leaned in for a hungrier kiss—or he tried to. You were quite eager to accept. Before the kissing could commence, however, a great whoop issued from outside the tent, causing you and Sirius to spring apart. 

"Good grief I thought you'd _never_ weasel that information out of him, [Name]!" James' head appeared through the flap as he spoke, with Remus' appearing below his slightly after, followed seconds later by Peter’s. "Padfoot, don't be _stupid_. You can stay here as long as you like. It's not like we don't have the room! Mum'll be thrilled. She loves having you over." 

"Sorry to hear about your family, Sirius," Remus added. 

“Same here!” Peter squeaked. 

You and Sirius looked at each other. His face looked just as red as yours felt. That blasted invisibility cloak! How you kept forgetting about it was beyond you. Obviously the boys had followed you outside and proceeded to listen to this entire conversation. Had Peter ever really gone an errand for his mother at all? Opening your mouth, you intended to inform your boyfriend you had _no_ idea this was the plan...but Sirius seemed already to know. He'd launched himself with a massive growl toward the others, who quickly darted back into the yard. 

"Prongs! I'm going to _kill_ you!" Sirius roared as he erupted from the tent. 

For the time being, you made no move to follow. James and Remus and Peter deserved whatever they got. Sirius needed to let out some pent up frustration anyway. You could not shield him from the hurt the world caused, no matter how much you wanted to. Shielding him from his friends was an entirely different matter—but you didn't think Sirius really needed shielding from them anyway, judging by the choruses of laughter that filled the warm afternoon air.


End file.
